


Mirra of Nowhere

by ladysassafrass



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Blood and Violence, Did I Mention Angst?, F/M, Follows Canon or I Died Trying, Friendship/Love, Life of Thorin thought the eyes of another, Not your average Thorin/OC and that's a promise, Slow Build, THIS WORK IS DEAD, angsty angst, author is masochistic, im very sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:58:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysassafrass/pseuds/ladysassafrass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bilbo meets a mysterious woman in Mirkwood named Mirra, he finds she knows more about Thorin and the quest than is comforting. This prompts a simple question, “How did you meet Thorin?”<br/>A question so easy, and yet an answer quite complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: 1) First-time fanfic author. 2) This is no short, light read; I am a relentless windbag talking about 150+ years of Thorin's life that go unaccounted for by Tolkien. 3) This is not your canon Thorin (although the events of his life here are rather canon) (but my interpretation of his character is probably terrible so sorry).  
> 4) This is not your typical OC story nor your typical OFC, I am bold enough to say. 5) It gets better as you read it, I promise.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo learns about an ancient clan.

“Gandalf, what are the Vuritari?”

“I beg you pardon, who?” The old wizard chewed on his pipe and lifted a quizzical eyebrow towards the hobbit.

Bilbo Baggins tried to keep the sigh out of his tone as he repeated himself. “The Vuritari. I read about them in a book once and I always wondered what they were, and who better to ask than, well, you?”

“Hmm, let’s see…” The leaves shuffled lazily in the forest breeze. Bilbo swayed with the limber clip-clop, clip-clop of his pony while waiting patiently for the old wizard to answer.

“Ah, yes! The Vuritari!” Gandalf exclaimed. The memory returned to him like a long-lost relative. That is, a relative he was not very fond of, apparently, for Gandalf’s eyebrows locked together and he frowned.

“Two thousand years ago,” he began, “the Vuritari, so the legend goes, were once part of the Dúnedain race of men. One day, in a small village somewhere in Arnor, a man came to their land by the name of Rorgorath. He proudly boasted of having spoken to the spirits of the Netherworld. They had in turn disclosed to him the way to elevate oneself into purer, higher beings.

“Normally, Rorgorath would have scoffed at as a rabble-rousing fool, but he arrived upon a time of great hardship and famine for the Dúnedain. Alas, for those desperate for relief from their plight, Rorgorath offered a tempting salvation. And so a following of twenty men and women formed around Rorgorath, who promised his followers the secret of spiritual enlightenment. They called themselves the Vuritari.

“Rorgorath and his cult – that would be the most fitting word for it – predictably drew ire and suspicion from the other menfolk. Rorgorath himself particularly made them ill at ease; once or twice came reports of a demonic tongue being spoken at the Vuritari camp outside the village. Some quietly declared him a wielder of black magic, but most thought him a mere scoundrel and fraud.

“One day, a young boy - a Vurtitari follower - approached his father’s bed while he slept and slit his throat. His only word of defense: ‘My father would not see the light. He was too weak, so I struck him down’. The appalled villagers ran the cult out of town. They were forced to flee over the hills and deep into the forest, where they formed their own community.

“The Vuritari fell out of common tongue until the year 861, when Eärendur, the King of Arnor, mysteriously died, prompting a civil war that would divide Arnor till its fall. Some say that a cloaked assassin hired by a local chieftain killed the King; and indeed, upon his deathbed, the chieftain supposedly mentioned the late Eärendur in his dying breath, along with a man called Surran of the Vuritari.

“If Surran was a Vuritari mercenary, he was not the last. When the Wainriders of the East swarmed into the lands of Rhonovian, they rode with a mysterious figure called Djungil against the armies of Gondor. Although Earnil II later annihilated the Easterlings and drove them out of Gondor, many a men spoke about the feats of Djungil. It is said that at one point in battle, he struck down at least 50 soldiers at once and bested them all himself. He would hack down men as one would hack down weeds. One soldier claimed that in the midst of battle, the fearsome Djungil declared his origins: he was a Vuritari, and claimed that his people were all warriors, trained from birth and as skillful as himself.

“The ludicrous cult had long been forgotten; soon the Vuritari became known through whispers about the land as a matchless warrior people. The legend grew to be as formidable as the Vuritari themselves. The Vuritari trained their children from infanthood, so they said, to become cold-blooded killers. Others claimed that they never met their equal because they were not mere humans; they were elves rejected by the Valar because of their violent nature, or demons in human form.”

An involuntary shiver went through Bilbo’s spine. “What do you believe, Gandalf?” Bilbo asked softly.

“About their nature?” Gandalf asked. “I believe that there is a great deal of magic and forces in this world, Bilbo Baggins, some beyond even my own understanding. Rorgorath was believed to be nothing but a charlatan. But it is possible that he learned how to contact spirits in the Netherworld and bind them to human vessels, accounting for their hosts’ enhanced strength and speed as well as a prolonged life. But you must understand, I do not tend to dwell into such terrible, wicked sorcery.”

“Oh no, no no, I d-didn’t mean to imply that – "

“It’s quite alright, Bilbo,” Gandalf replied casually. “I know you meant nothing by it.”

They were quiet for a moment. Then: “Gandalf, I read that none can survive an encounter with even one Vuritari.”

“Nonsense, you’re only saying that because no one ever has.*” Gandalf smirked at the fearful hobbit. “Rest assured, Master Baggins, that the Vuritari have not been seen for many a century now. They have likely isolated themselves to their commune, the location of which no one knows. It is said they fear interaction with the outside world because they find it ‘spiritually impure’.” He coughed on his pipe with a mocking ‘pah!’

“So…” Bilbo said slowly, “it is unlikely that we would ever come across one.”

“Most unlikely,” Gandalf reassured him, laying a gentle smile upon the hobbit. He suddenly paused. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Bilbo involuntarily sucked in a mouthful of air. His eye bulged wide.

Gandalf puffed a wispy white smoke ring. “The Vuritari are known to have a severe code of conduct. If one were to violate such a code, it would be pain of death or -"

“I don’t understand,” Bilbo stammered. “What does that have to do with-"

“Or banishment,” Gandalf finished curtly. “Punishment by exile.” Seeing Bilbo’s pale fale, he added, “But I doubt that such a ruthless culture would resort to something so light if a warrior were to egregiously violate a law. So don’t you fret, Bilbo Baggins. There are more dangerous things on our journey to worry about.”

“Like what?”

“Like a certain hobbit’s unquenchable curiosity.”

Bilbo felt his cheek burn scarlet as the old wizard chuckled. A light rain began to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Yes, this is a quote from “The Princess Bride”. I thought it was perfect for the scene
> 
> So this is my first work of fanfiction and I’m trying to do it as right as possible. I’m using the LOTR Wikia as my main form of research for the battles and the figures in history.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo stumbles across a strange woman in Mirkwood.

_Ah, do I miss those days with Gandalf._

There was not but the sound of a morning lark in Mirkwood. The trees loomed over, like silent guards watching, watching his every step; no breeze wandered through the branches to swish the leaves. They stood in chilling solemnity, a grand temple of greenery.

Bilbo did not realize how forlorn the woods truly were until the lark began to sing. The silence stabbed him with a thousand blunted needles. Bilbo’s throat seized when he thought of how alone and exposed he was without the Company. He was the only creature for miles. With every crunch, crunch, crunch of his steps followed a loud da-dum in his chest that echoed in the forest. Bilbo swallowed; his hands were moist so he made a fist on his left hand on which he wore a small golden ring.

 _Remember, Bilbo_. He closed his eyes. _You are invisible. No one can see you. You are safe so long as it is on. You are –_

THUMP.

Bilbo toppled and knock went his head on the hard forest floor. He groaned, in pain from the shock as well as from an ache that oozed into his back.

An inch from his left hand laid the ring. Bilbo instinctively snatched it up. About to stand, Bilbo realized that there was something thin and metal on his neck. He shivered; it felt icy on his skin

“Slowly now, make no haste, stand up.”

With every word, Bilbo felt his breath catch. An elf? No, the tone was as harsh and cold as the sword the being wielded.

“Arms out. Turn around.”

Bilbo obeyed and slowly he rotated to face his assailant.

Before him stood a woman, dressed in dark cloth and leather. Her sword was so close to his face, he felt that if he took a breath, the tip would quiver.

“Who are you,” she demanded, “and what is your business here.”

He again jumped at the harsh tones. Clearly no elf as there was no fairness about her. Her muddy eyes was as stern as steel. Her face, lined and pockmarked, held no sign of warmth. She wore pants, a great surprise to his hobbit sensibilities. He had never seen a woman wearing trousers like a man before.

“I have not cut out your tongue yet,” the woman said gruffly. “Speak, or die.”

“I- I’m B-Bilbo Baggins, m’lady. I am a hobbit.”

“A hobbit.” Her eyes narrowed. “Never met one before.”

“Well that’s alright, not many people have, I’ve found.” Bilbo tried to smile despite himself.

“And what business,” she asked, “does a hobbit have in the dark forests of Mirkwood?”

Bilbo gulped. “I- I- um, my own.”

The blade now was mere inches away from his throat. Da-dum, da-dum galloped his heart. “I ask you again,” she hissed. “What. Is. Your. Business.”

Bilbo stammered. “Please, I have a home, Bag-end. In the Shire. Please, I want no trouble with-“

“The Shire?” She frowned. Bilbo paused, but his heart continued to gallop with such intensity that he feared it spring from his chest.

The woman’s eyes suddenly widened. Smirking, she moved back, but kept the sword tip pointed at Bilbo’s throat.

“Tell me, hobbit” – with a menacing smile – “and answer me straight. Are you traveling alone.”

The dwarves’ faces flashed in his mind. “No, yes, I am traveling alone.”

Her eyes narrowed. She paused. Then, with a whisper: “ _Erebor_.”

Bilbo stiffened and his jaw twitched automatically.

The woman grimaced. “You know the name. Now I have no patience for games and liars. You are traveling with a band of dwarves, are you not?”

Bilbo’s palm dampened. _She knew_. _How?_ Her sword pointed tauntingly at his neck. “…I am.”

“And where are they now?”

“Taken.” Bilbo had no choice but to tell the truth. “By the Woodland Elves. I avoided capture.”

“Did you now?”

“No one thinks to notice a hobbit.”

She was silent for a moment. Her sword, though still aloft, fell a fraction of an inch.

Bilbo suddenly felt overpowered by a memory of Gandalf telling Thorin, “ _You are being hunted.”_ _We are being hunted_ …The realization then hit him like a stone.

With a burst of courage, “Are you…you are the one hunting us.” Bilbo asked.

One eybrow raised, she leveled a glare at him. “Sorry?”

“Gandalf- uh I mean,” – _Oh gods, just tell her everything, why don’t you?_ – “we thought that we are being hunted by someone. Multiple someones.”

She let out a mirthless chuckle. “If I’d hunted you, you’d not have come so far. And I have no interest in pursuing dwarves and hobbits.” She bit the word “hobbits” like it was a nut. Bilbo flinched. “And I serve no interest but my own, if that was your next question.”

Bilbo felt his questioned answered. But wait, why did it satisfy him? That could’ve easily been a lie; if she were an assassin, she certainly would lie to him, and she’d be damn good at it too.

 _Shiik_. She sheathed her sword.  “Fear not, your friends will be safe for the night,” she said tersely. “I am Mirra. I have food and drink at my camp.”

With a flourish of her cloak she stalked away into the forest. Bilbo stood dumbfounded for a moment. Then a lurching grumble slipped from his stomach.

 _Oh, not now_. He had not eaten properly for weeks now, but now he was supposed to trust the food of a strange woman who had just held a blade to his throat? He bit his lip and let out an exasperated sigh. He looked down at his stomach. “If trouble comes of this, I blame you.”

And he followed her through the temple of ominous green.

 

-

           

Night fell over the forest and the pair sat in silence around a red cackling fire. Mirra gave Bilbo dried meat and fruit. He gave the food a withering, speculative look before devouring it all.

Mirra smirked. “I’m surprised you trust the food I give you, hobbit.”

“I dfon’t,” he responded, his mouth full for the first time in what seemed an eternity. “Fut, I hafve’t eaten in sfo long dat I goodn’t care _lesf_ if it was pfoisoned.”

She nodded.

As Bilbo finished his dinner, they sat in silence. The forest loomed even more intimidatingly beyond the light of the fire. The stillness was unnerving, but Bilbo had gotten more used to it. That did not mean that he still did not jump when the firelight threw an occasional shadow onto the tree trunks.

Some time later, he broke the spell of the still, “So do you know Thorin?”

A flash in her eyes that did not come from the firelight. “Yes.” She said coolly, not meeting Bilbo’s stare. “A long time ago.”

“How?”

“What does it matter to you?” She shot back, a razor in her voice.

Bilbo flinched but pressed the issue. “I’m just curious. To you, I was just another unimportant wanderer in the forest until I mentioned the Shire. You realized what I – what we – were up to, and you seem to know almost as much about it as one of the company itself. And not only that, now that you know my business, I’m sharing your food and fire.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she did not stop him.

He continued. “So what I want to know is, why do you know so much? And why did you show sympathy towards me? And I also want you to convince me that you are not some Orc servant or hired assassin.”

Mirra snorted, but not as coldly as before. “If I were some Orc servant or assassin, what makes you think that anything I tell you is true?”

Bilbo shrugged. “I don’t know. But for some reason, I believe you honest. Now I want to know why.”

Mirra did not respond for a long time. Bilbo was suddenly aware of his breathing and made an effort to breathe evenly.

Then quietly, he heard her murmur, “you realize this is no short children’s tale, right? I have lived for over a hundred years and I have known Thorin for most of them.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You are over a _hundred_? You look no older than the dwarves!”

“Who in turn are also well over a hundred,” she said, amused by his naiveté. It then struck Bilbo how her face was weathered, sprinkled with pockmarks and wrinkles. Her brown eyes, though fierce, were dulled and old. She seemed like someone who’s seen much of the world, almost too much.

Bilbo said, “I have time. I doubt that even a dozen dirty, stubborn dwarves will rot in an elvish prison.”

She nodded, smiling at his joke. Then she took a deep breath. “It began long ago…”


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirra meets our angsty dwarvish prince for the first time.

Mirra ran like fire through the woods. Her feet moved quickly and made only whispers on the dead, crispy leaves using a technique she had been taught as a child. Breathing controlled, arms pumping, she did not heave or pant as the trees hurtled by her. This was a standard hunt, executed hundreds of times before.

Periodically she paused in her pursuit and crouched on her haunches, scanning the area for tracks, dung, or swipes in the bark; only for a few moments, then Mirra would press on after her prey. Her ears were perked, alert for any sound, her eyes watching, checking, watching always. She was drawing close. She slowed for the final time to a noiseless prowl.

A white tuft caught her eye. The tuft was attached to the body of an elegant brown buck. He nosed the ground and stood clearly between two trees. _Ah, my prey._

An oak trunk invited her to hide behind it. _In, out_ went her breaths as her left hand reached up and over her back, slowly removing her bow from her back. Meanwhile, her right hand slipped an arrow out of the quiver. _In, out_ as she nocked the arrow above the grip. One more breath, silent and controlled, and then she pulled back the bowstring effortlessly until it dug into her fingers. Without a sound, she whipped around the tree trunk and faced her prey. The unsuspecting buck stood still in the clearing, munching on green shrubbery. Her arrow pointed squarely at the proud animal’s chest.

At that precise moment, a child wandered by the trees. Alarmed, the buck fled the clearing _No_. Mirra reaimed her bow, but no luck, for the deer had danced away into the shadow of the forest unseen.

Mirra swore under her breath and leaned against the oak trunk in frustration. Whirling back around the trunk, she threw a smoldering look at the little devil that had denied her her prey. The child had taken no notice of her; it sat contently in front of a bush, picking leaves. Mirra drew back her bow again, this time pointed at the child’s head. She had killed people before without a care; this was to be no different. In her mind’s eye, her arrow flew swift at its skull. She imagined the child’s thick hair red with matted blood.

But the bow remain flexed, her fingers did not release. The child continued to play in total unawareness. A voice called, “Haro,” drawing the child’s attention and prompting it to stand up and bounce into the bushes and beyond Mirra’s sight.

Mirra stood up from the tree trunk and frowned at her fingers. A rabbit made the mistake of passing by at that moment. Within seconds it lay dead, an arrow sticking out of a mangy hide. Her eyebrows knitted together as she picked up the red-dribbled rabbit.

So it was not that her fingers had cramped or frozen; Mirra had just proven to herself that she could still kill. No, something else, something inside her had stopped her from taking the child’s life in cold blood. Something made it different from hunting a deer or rabbit.

And now something drove Mirra to follow where the child had just bounced away.

Why? Why am I doing this? But her feet kept taking steps forward, and her brain, to her great wonder, made no effort to stop them. Perhaps it was curiosity? No other rational reason came to mind.

The child – Haro – bounded through the thickets and ran towards a small bearded woman holding an old basket. It – he – ran up to her skirts and tugged at them with grubby little fingers. The woman then clucked to him in a strange tongue. Mirra slunk behind as the woman and child walked hand-in-hand to a clearing. Mirra stopped short, her eyes widening at what she saw.

In the open land sprawled a sea of faded tents. Short bearded men and women with soiled clothes and inched faces walked to and fro in silence. Some carried firewood, others carried roots and whatever they could forage in the forest. Some children giggled and pranced around, but most everyone else held their mouths tight and their backs straight and dignified as they worked. At the edge of the camp bordering the tangle of the forest, the bearded woman and child sat down by a tent. Suddenly they were flocked by three other younglings. Their hair, a fiery red, matched the woman’s hair and beard.

The basket the woman held contained no more than a few roots and berries; hardly enough for a decent meal. Mirra felt a small lump in her chest as the woman wearily removed her cloak and begin to prepare a meal.

Something twinged strangely in her chest. Her face felt heavy. The rabbit was lumpy and soft in her hand.

 _No, no, they can take care of themselves_ , Mirra reprimanded herself. But as she wandered farther and farther from the camp into the forest, she could not shake off the sad eyes of the hungry bearded mother and her four children.

 

-

That night, the bearded mother was joined by a long-bearded man. The children scampered around as the woman cooked the stew and the man wistfully smoked a pipe. The pot contained little, but no one said anything about it. They knew that this was what they had to eat, for it was about as much as they have had to eat for months now.

When Mirra, cloaked in black and hoisting the great carcass of a buck around her shoulders, came stumbling to their campsite, they were, needless to say, shocked. Their eyes – including the children – looked as if they burst out of their heads and their mouths hung agape.

Mirra ignored their shock. She laid the buck on the ground and began to carve it. Part way through the process, she met the eyes of the bearded mother. Mirra made a few short gestures. “I cut this” – she held her knife up and made slices at the air – “for you” – pointing at the woman and her children – “to eat” – her hands brought an imaginary piece of meat to her mouth and she bit down. A moment of thick silence, then the woman snapped out of her stupor. As Mirra cut, the woman took each piece of meat to spear and lay to roast over the fire. All the while, the four red-haired children sat frozen on the ground, their mouths nearly permanently agape.

The short bearded man also snapped out of his stupor for he suddenly let fly a string of angry words. It was the strange tongue that Mirra had heard earlier; she looked up at him, blinked, and then returned to her work. The woman then let loose her own angry words – at the man though, not at Mirra. Once she had finished her unintelligible tirade, the man shut his mouth. The woman resumed her work while he sat in silence once again. The firelight danced off the hollows of his cheeks.

The two had only half-carved the buck when a harsh “Hey, you!” snapped Mirra to her feet. She whirled around, gripping the knife defensively, searching with fervent eyes for the attack she knew had to come.

A short, black-haired and bearded man rushed towards her and the family. His face was contorted with fury, as dark as the night above.

“Leave them be!” he thundered. “Scram, thief!” His eyes burned bright like coals in the dark. A thick hand grasped the hilt of a sword.

She held her ground and gritted her teeth, but then she glanced down at the wide, frightened eyes of the children. Wanting no quarrel with him in front of the family, Mirra lowered the knife, whipped around, and darted into the woods. After a hundred yards or so, she leapt into a tree, leaping up quickly, as a set of footsteps closed in with a hefty thud, thud, thud.

Then silence. Mirra dared to peek out of the trees. The small dark-haired man wielded a iron sword and had stopped in his pursuit. He scanned the forest before him with eyes, Mirra saw, that were a cold grey like iron, but as fierce as fire.

Then he sheathed his sword with a grating _shiik._ His eyelids snapped shut as he let out a grunt. When they opened, no longer were they narrowed narrowed, but the white-hot iron remained. Nonetheless, there was surprisingly no malevolence or ill-will in them. He stalked back to the camp with a huff. Then, when the forest had returned to its stillness for a moment or two, Mirra eased herself out of the tree.

The family sprung to her mind, with their wide, frightened eyes. He was only guarding his people, she realized; she was an intruder, a trespasser. And so Mirra snuck back into the dark blue forest, the glow of the campfires fading and fading as she plunged deeper and deeper.

Those eyes of fiery iron, however, did not fade so quickly.

______

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER: they’ll actually know each other’s names in Chapter 3. HOLY PANCAKES THEY SHOULD JUST START NAMING THEIR BABIES RIGHT NOW.  
> For those of you following this story on Tumblr, I changed the language heavily because I have an unrelenting urge to tweak things, but the story is the same.  
> Again, a farther-along drafted version of this is here: mirra-of-nowhere.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirra and Thorin learn each other's names.

~

“So that was Thorin.”

Mirra glared at the little hobbit. “Sorry?”

“That was Thorin you met,” Bilbo repeated wearily. “In the woods. And those were the refugees of Erebor.”

“Put a clamp on it, hobbit, or I’ll do it for you.”

His face wilted, but he went quiet. Mirra resumed her tale.

~

Three years had passed since she last saw the man with the eyes of iron.

The blacksmith’s shop was as plain and old as the rest of the town, the stone chipped and the floor unswept. It was divided into two rooms separated by an old plaster wall and linked by an simple archway. The loud metallic chinks and smell of sulfur and burning from the back room saturated the air.

Before Mirra now stood a gray-haired man, his cheeks dappled with age spots but his mouth hard and stern, a proud and imposing man.

“May I help you?”

She hesitatingly approached him. Oh, how long it’d been since her last interaction with menfolk. Her sword hid the counter with a loud clang as she dropped it. “It needs sharpening,” Mirra said brusquely.

The man raised it carefully. He swiped a finger up and down the blade, looked it over from pommel to tip. He raised an eyebrow at the dents, ridges, and crevices that riddled the worn-and-torn blade and shook his head.

“This blade has met too much damage. If I reforge and sharpen it, the metal will become brittle and useless. I cannot in good faith send anyone out with a blade like that.”

The blacksmith spoke frankly without a bit of slime or greed in his voice. Mirra exhaled with relief; he was right. The old blade had served her well, but now it was beyond repair. “How much?”

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Depends on what kind of sword you want.”

“I haven’t got a penny on me.”

“Then I haven’t got time to waste with you,” he barked, “even if all you needed was a sharpening. G’day.” Irritated, the blacksmith began to shuffle towards the backroom.

“Wait,” Mirra said abrubtly. He stopped, huffed, then turned to face her again. “You limp,” she remarked.

“Aren’t you the sharpest of the lot?” He remarked curtly, a hint of a wince in his voice.

“I can offer you my services. In exchange for a sword.”

“Ah, bartering. And what is your offer, then?”

“I can hunt. Well,” she replied simply, her face as blank as fresh parchment. “And currently you cannot.”

The blacksmith’s throat twitched at her bluntness, but he said nothing. Her eyes were as clear as her words. She meant no insult; she merely stated the truth.

Mirra continued, “I can offer you one full-grown deer by tomorrow morning for a solid sword.”

“Alright, make it a stag.”

“A stag, then, if I receive a sound sword”

“On my word, I’ve never made a cheap thing in my life.” The blacksmith lifted his chin with pride as they shook hands. “I’ll have my dwarf begin your blade now. Thorin!” He bellowed into the backroom. The man who emerged sent mini shockwaves through Mirra’s body.

For out came the man with the blazing iron eyes. His forehead shone beneath a layer matted grime. His thick eyebrows darkened his already steely face. The thin cloth tunic he wore was soaked and clung to rippling muscles in his arms and chest, which heaved up and down from his ragged breathing. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing rugged, hairy forearms as dark as the thick locks falling in clumps from his head. The smell of him made the blacksmith twitch in irritation, but it merely wafted into Mirra’s nostrils with a quiet air of authority. In fact, everything about him radiated silently with authority.

The iron-eyed man - Thorin - did not meet Mirra’s stare; his eyes fixed themselves hard on the blacksmith. Did they always blaze so bright? If his withering look affected the blacksmith, the smith did not show it. “Dwarf, I’ve got a order for a blade for the lady-“

The blacksmith looked at her intently, waiting, Mirra realized all of a sudden. He wanted her name. “Mirra,” she added with a start, a bit louder than she expected.

“For the lady Mirra,” he said with an unreadable expression. “She’ll pick it up in the morning. I’ll dispose of this now.” But as the smith was about to hand over the sword, Mirra’s arm shot out impulsively and grabbed the hilt. To part with her weapon went against a strong instinct of hers, instilled in girlhood, that was not overcome so easily. 

Thunder and lightening roiled silently between the blacksmith and Mirra as each scowled at the other for a few heavy moments. Then the smith grudgingly released the hilt and Mirra quickly sheathed the sword.

“I will bring you payment tomorrow.”

“I open at dawn.” He did not wish to argue with a customer; so long as she brought payment, there was no reason to quarrel.

Mirra nodded her head brusquely to the blacksmith and then to the iron-eyed man, Thorin. He glared back with near equal ferocity to when he pursued her in the wood. Heat rising in her cheeks, she then ducked out of the shop into the muddy village path. Villagers in mucky clothes with yellow teeth took no real notice of her, and if they did, no remark was made. Just another vagrant, another wanderer roaming the earth.

A bell tolled for noon.

-

That night, at her camp outside the mannish town, Mirra laid back on a pillow of root and leaf. The air was surprisingly warm, so she went without a fire and let the darkness of the wood embrace her. She gazed at the dark forest canopy, but she did not see it. Her mind was elsewhere. Mirra could not remember what she was pondering that night, but there was one thought that ceaseless washed over her mind and then receded, then returned and fell away again.  _The iron-eyed man, Thorin was his name; why had their paths crossed not once, but twice?_

She dismissed it; a coincidence, nothing more. And so Mirra shut her eyes and let sleep overtake her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I did was look at a gif of Thorin as a blacksmith and described him while trying to ignore my ovaries in the process. It wasn’t easy.
> 
> This is an edited version of this: mirra-of-nowhere.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin makes a sword for Mirra and each learns more about the other.

A hazy pink sun barely peeked out of the horizon, but already Thorin was on his way to open the blacksmith’s shop. Half the village awoke with him; there were the bleary-eyed farmers hauling in their produce and erecting ramshackle stands for market; there lay a drunk slumped sleepily against a pub was being berated by guardsmen; and from further up the road drifted the sweet smell of bread, for the baker had just lit his ovens.

Thorin saw he was not the first to arrive at the blacksmith’s shop. Outside the door stood a stock-still man, a dark cloak obscuring his face. On the man’s shoulders sprawled a great stag, its tongue lolling and black eyes gazing lifelessly at an unseen beyond.

“Well, you certainly are punctual,” Thorin remarked tersely while unlocking the door. The man turned to look at him, Thorin felt his jaw tighten with minor embarrassment. Before him stood not a man, but the peculiar woman from yesterday.

Quickly before she could see, he hid the embarrassment behind his usual mask of gruffness. “I’ll take that off your hands if you wish,” he offered, referring to the massive beast sitting on her shoulders.

“It’s no burden,” she replied curtly. Thorin grunted in reply as he entered the shop, keeping his awe at the woman’s genuine lack of strain to himself.

-

After laying the stag on the counter, Mirra looked up to see the iron-eyed man* disappeared. Then, the just-woken hearths released a fiery crackle and whoosh. In the backroom, the man shoveled charcoal into the orange mouths of brick, each time inciting a roar from the flames. His overshirt removed, the man wore a large tunic with the sleeves rolled up. Firelight danced off the innumerable black tools and metal work hanging on the walls. There were barrel hoops mixed among swords, boxes of rivets and nails alongside spearheads-

“Customers are not permitted back here.” The iron-eyed man’s voice snapped Mirra out of her trance. Despite its hashness, it was not a reprimand, but a simple statement of fact. His face glistened, already coated with a dusting of soot.

“Oh. Didn’t know,” Mirra replied casually, but she did not move. Ultimately he shrugged, grumbling something about ‘it’s your business”, and returned to his work. She returned to watching him.

From what she could tell, the iron-eyed man was very good at what he did. The heat from the raging hearths swelled in hot waves and billowed across the room, but he seemed indifferent to it. Every hammer strike collided with the sparking white metal with distinct purpose. Every stroke fell soundly from sturdy shoulders and rang on the anvil. He worked briskly and decisively; his ferocious eyes fixed themselves on the task before him, ignoring the beads of sweat rolling off his knitted brow. He seemed oblivious to Mirra’s curious scrutiny as well.

For a long while, neither party said a thing, the clangs of hammers and metal tools and the roar of fire fill the shop. Then in a mouselike voice, Mirra shattered the silence. “What is your name?”

At first, he did not appear to hear her. Then came the reply - “What does it matter to you?” – rough like a dull knife. He did not raise his gaze from the glowing hot metal.

“Not much at all,” she admitted frankly. “Just curious.”

There was the hint of a smirk beneath his rugged black beard. “Thorin.”

“Thorin,” Mirra repeated. “Of whom and where?”

The hammer hit the anvil with an extra-loud clang. Thorin’s face had stiffened. “Of….Durin’s Folk,” he finally answered,  “of the Dunland as of late.” He glared crossly at the metal like a king at an unruly subject. “Originally of Erebor.”

“Where is that?”

“The Lonely Mountain, others call it,” he explained in between hammer strokes. “Erebor was- is the kingdom of the dwarves. We don’t live there anymore.” He then thrust the metal back into the hearth, his eyes stony and his mouth grim.

Mirra nodded and said no more. The subject seemed to pain him, so again the clanking metal and hissing furnaces reigned the quiet shop.

“And you,” Thorin asked abruptly sometime later. “What of your name and birth?”

Mirra’s throat tightened. She pulled her arms in and drooped her head; the floor and its blemishes absolutely fascinated her all of a sudden.  _What to say, what to say…_  The man continued his hammering, waiting silently and patiently for her to respond.

“I am Mirra,” she ultimately declared. “Mirra of nowhere, daughter of none. Alone I roam Middle Earth, with neither kin to claim nor place to call home.”

The clanging suddenly. ceased. She peeked up her wilted head.

Thorin had stopped his work, letting his hammer hang by his side, and now stared at Mirra with an unreadable expression. His eyes bored into her eyes, her nose, her forehead, her whole being, searching for some unknown thing so intently that Mirra felt the urge to tuck herself away and tightly seal whatever in inside her he sought. But whether she wanted to look away or not, her eyes remained riveted to his. So Mirra decided to search him back. The blaze burned bright as always, but the iron in his eyes, it seemed almost to have thinned or softened. And in their depths dwelled something, something she could neither feel nor name but that seemed oddly familiar, as if it were a feeling she held herself.

After what seemed an eternity, a clatter and a shout outside; a farmer cursed loudly after a clumsy man who had just about toppled a market stand. It was enough to sever the connection; Mirra felt a bit shocked that no rip was heard as their eyes pulled apart. Thorin busied himself grinding the metal blade while Mirra leaned against a wall, examining and fidgeting with her fingers. The silence that ensued smothered them both; neither could say a word, and there seemed to be none to say anyway

An hour or so later, the shop door opened with a startling boom, unmindful if the almost sacred stillness that had developed there. In shuffled the gray-haired, stern-faced blacksmith. Acknowledging Thorin with a detached nod – that was then returned – he set a hefty bag on a workbench and paused to gingerly rub his limping leg. When he finally noticed Mirra resting against a wall, his eyes widened with fury.

“No customers back here!” he barked before wheeling on Thorin, “You! You know better than to let her back here. This is no place for a lady of any-”

“It’s not his fault,” Mirra interrupted calmly.

“Oh indeed?” The blacksmith wheeled on her, sparks snapping beneath his darkened brow.

“I was curious. He resisted, warning me me just as you did. But I demanded he let me since I brought my payment.” She peered calmly at the scowling blacksmith. “The payment that lies on your front counter.”

Two furious eyes darted to the counter; so it was. “Who shot it?” he spat. “Your brother? Father? Husband?”

Now it was her turn to be furious. “I did,” she replied curtly, clenching her jaw. “Would you like me to demonstrate?”

They glared at each other in silence. Then, the blacksmith bit his lip and then dropped his head, his anger having ebbed. “I apologize,” he said slowly. “Your sword will be ready momentarily. You may wait here until it is done.” Mirra nodded without a word, the turned her heel to wait by the counter outside the backroom.

Not a moment later, three or four men with short, fledging beards strode into the shop. Completely ignoring Mirra’s presence, they took long, swaggering strides up to the blacksmith’s counter, who cast them a tired, leery look. When the blacksmith shuffled away to find something for them, one man whispered noisily to the others and was received with obnoxious snickering. One man pointed a churlish finger into the backroom where the black-bearded man sat hard at work at the grinder.

“…I hear that even the dwarven women are bearded.”

Another let out a nasty guffaw. “Dwarven women’, can you ‘ear yourself speak?”

The third added in. “They fool around with girls of the other lots.”

“What girl would ever take a tumble with a hairy troll half her height? How would he even reach-?”

“Naw, naw,” added the first with a wicked smirk. “They just lie with their fellow dwarves. They’re the only ones desperate enough to let them into their beds!”

 _BANG._ Then the clatter of metalwork dropping to the ground. Thorin stood to his full height, his body vibrating with thunderous rage. His mouth had twisted into a ferocious snarl and his hands balled into fists so tight that the knuckles turned white. He glared savagely at the wall where he had just flung his hammer.One of the three men dared to emit a nervous chuckle, only to be slapped into silence by a thunderbolt hurled from Thorin’s storming eyes.

“Thorin!” The blacksmith roared. “What in the Mark* do you think you’re doing to my shop?!” Thorin bit his lip then slowly wheeled to face his employer.

But just then the three men made the mistake of smirking. The smith caught their looks. His stricken face was terrifyingly white. “ _Get out_.” Every word dripped with sharped icicles.

“What?” One of them scoffed in poorly feigned innocence. “What ever did we-?”

“ _You know damn well what you did_.” The smith’s face was white in snowlike fury and his eyes blazed murderously. “Get out of my shop or each of your fathers will hear about their sons’ dishonor.”

The blood ran right out of their faces and the three froze.

 _“OUT!”_ And off bolted the three men, trying to preserve whatever dignity they thought they had left by not scampering into the street like rabbits.

“Now you, dwarf,” the blacksmith barked back at Thorin. His face regained some of its color, but the bitterness remained. “I don’t want to dismiss yo-”

“No need,” Thorin snatched his overgarments and something else Mirra couldn’t see. “Hope you find someone else who _sizes up_ to the job.”

“Thorin!” But he ignored the blacksmith’s bellows and stalked towards the door.

Before he left, his iron eyes caught Mirra’s frozen frame. Thorin stomped towards her and thrust a package wrapped in rough leather into her hand. “A sword for the lady,” he sneered, nearly spitting into her face. “Farewell, Mirra of nowhere.”

And he shoved the door and marched out of the shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, wow, rage. Tons of rage. They should have just taken turns sharpshooting the three shits and then have wild, extravagant sex over the anvil.  
> *1. Mirra calls Thorin a man rather a dwarf because she doesn’t think of people as different races and stuff.  
> *2. The Mark is another word for the Riddermark or Rohan.  
> Hope you guys like this so far!


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two anti-social, awkward people have a heart-to-heart.  
> (~ means change from the past to the present or vice versa, - means a scene cut within same timeline)

It was dusk by the time Mirra headed back to her camp. After the scene at the blacksmith’s shop that morning, she felt it best to leave the man village as swiftly as possible and not to return. No need to embroil herself in the troubles of other folk. So she escaped into the solitude of the forests, where her lungs loosened the iron bonds of nerves and her mouth relaxed and her eyes closed in peace and contentment. The untamed brush and wood were her natural habitat, and quite possibly the closest thing she had to a proper home.

On her way back to her campsite, her feet suddenly stopped in their tracks. _Something wasn’t right_ , whispered her instincts, bristling and tingling all over. On the ground laid a set of footprints that did not belong to her. In the breeze drifted a curious odor and what sounded like muffled breathing. Her body tensed like a knife. She crept with silent footsteps over the leaves and undergrowth, controlling her breaths that seemed to roar in the still forest. Soundlessly, she began to pull out two short knives.

There was the orange glow of a fire lit at her camp. Ducking down, she could make out the shadow of the intruder. Every sound, every swish of leaves, every critter’s movement was thundering in her ears. Her legs and shoulders held taut, her eyes sharp and fierce, she crouched on the balls of her feet. Her fists, each clutching a knife, were placed steadily on the ground.

The snap of a branch – perhaps from some careless squirrel – and the shadowy intruder whipped his head around. No more time to wait. Mirra lunged through the brush like a panther launching herself at the trespasser.

The unwelcome visitor had better reflexes than she expected, for she just barely avoided the silver length of a blade before she landed. She rolled forward onto her feet and whipped around, her knives bared like claws, to face the stranger who had dared enter her campsite. Before her stood Thorin gripping a sword ready to fight, his face hard and his eyes flaring with fire.

Both were shocked to see the other. They let their weapons drop slightly, but their bodies remained tensed and on guard.

“What are you doing here?” Thorin asked menacingly as Mirra started to demand the same thing.

“I asked first.” Thorin stubbornly lifted his chin, trying to intimidate her.

“This is my camp,” Mirra countered coldly. “The right to ask is mine.”

Thorin’s eyes flashed in defeated annoyance. Mirra ignored the look and stared stonily back.

“I needed a place to rest,” he finally answered. “The blacksmith had been letting me stay with his family. That arrangement obviously ended after today.”

With a shrill scrape, he sheathed his sword. Mirra continued to grip her knives, which glinted threateningly in the firelight. Every bone in her body was conditioned to never too quickly surrender her weapons, or place her trust in anyone but herself.

Thorin stood still, his eyes darting between one knife, then the other, then Mirra’s face. Then slowly, he said, “I am sorry for trespassing on your camp. I did not realize it belonged to anyone.”

Mirra felt an uninvited grin creep onto her face; she prided herself in her ability to walk the land invisible. Every morning, her tent and belongings were secured in a nearby oak branch, the fire pit was thoroughly extinguished, and all traces of her presence were removed. Even upon the rare occasion that she stayed in one spot for two or more nights, she went through the same routine; it had become a force of habit.

“No ill-will was meant,” Thorin continued, “nor did I intend any harm.” He turned to walk into the dark of the forest.

“Wait.” The word leapt out of Mirra’s mouth before she realized it. Thorin paused and turned back towards her.

“You may stay,” she felt her mouth say. “For one night.” Mirra then scolded herself silently. _What am I doing? What on earth is the matter with me?_

Thorin bowed his head, walked back to the camp, and sat down before the fire. His brow had softened with genuine gratitude; he had nowhere else to go that night if she had turned him away.

“Dinner is rabbit,” she declared irritably. She reached over her back and pulled two rabbits hanging off her quiver from a leather cord.

“Couldn’t find another stag?” Thorin asked with a smile. Mirra’s eyes darkened.

“That buck happened to be the price of a sword, and I needed a sword.” She bit her words as she spoke.  “For the meal of one, it is a wasteful and selfish kill. I do not kill needlessly.” The memory of the dwarven boy Haro, the one that she nearly took the life of long ago, flashed her mind. Her head dropped to hide her cheeks that suddenly burned with guilt. “At least I try not to.”

He nodded as Mirra united the rabbits. One she threw to Thorin, the other she skewered with a pre-sharpened stick that she then shoved into the ground an inch away from the fire. As it cooked, she plopped down in annoyance, still reprimanding her treacherous mouth. _What are you doing, confiding in a complete stranger? How much do you plan to tell him? Why don’t you just throw all caution away and let him kill you in your sleep?_

Mirra did not see Thorin watching her in puzzled amusement. He said nothing though. Neither said a word even after the rabbits finished cooking and they dove into their lackluster meals.

The woods were tranquil that evening. Insects chirped and occasionally there was the grave hoot of a nearby owl. Mirra threw the carcass of her finished rabbit into the fire, which let out a satisfied grumble. Thorin did the same.

A moment of silence, and then Mirra’s mouth betrayed her again. “So what is a dwarf doing blacksmithing in a mannish village?”

He raised his eyebrows, surprised by her bluntness, but not offended. “My people rely on me to provide for them. So I wander from village to village, trying for a job anywhere I can. Blacksmithing happens to be one of my specialities.”

“Your people,” she said, remembering the conversation they had earlier that morning. “The dwarves in the Dunland?”

He nodded solemnly. “I am Thorin II, son of Thrain and grandson of Thror of the line of Durin.” Mirra’s blank stare provoked an irritated twitch in his mouth. “Thror, being the king of the dwarves. I am his son’s heir.”

“So, you are a king-to-be?”

He nodded, straightening his back impulsively with a hint of pride.

Mirra frowned. “I thought kings were supposed to be…” She couldn’t find the words. “I’m not sure, but you don’t strike me as a king.”

He stood up in furious indignation. “I am an heir, a prince if you will and forgive me if I do not meet your image of royalty,” he growled in a tone that was not forgiving at all.

“No I didn’t mean it like that.” Mirra’s cheeks were hot. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know at all, having never met a king or anyone royal ever in my life. “

In fact,” she added in a mumble, “I haven’t met much people of _any_ kind through my life.” She tucked her arms together and brought her knees into her chest. _Why did I say that? Why, oh why did I say that?_

Thorin looked at her curiously. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Your story.”

“I have none,” she quietly snapped. She looked away, hoping he would not pester her further.

“Well, you can’t have just popped out of the ground or fallen one day from a high cloud. You must have come from somewhere,” he remarked with a flash of smirk.

Mirra examined his face. It was naturally harsh, but not malicious; he seemed curious for curiosity’s sake and not for some evil design. She sighed.

“I am of the Dúnedain. A special clan of Dúnedain, that lives so deep in the forest that none can find them. I was raised like every other child as part of the clan; the concept of ‘mother’ and ‘father’ was alien to me until I came across the outside world. I learned how to fight, to hunt, everything I needed to know to survive in the wild, wild world, because that was the only world that existed to them, to me. It was not a happy childhood, some might say, but what other path did I know?”

“Why did you leave?”

“I didn’t. I was forced out.”

“Why? What did you do”

“A crime, so they say.” Her eyes grew bitter and cold.

Thorin stiffened. “What sort of crime. Murder?”

She let out a mirthless snort. “No, that would have earned praise in their eyes. I committed treason.”

“How?”

“By defying an elder.”

“That’s akin to treason?”

“Of the highest order. Obedience is a fundamental part of life there. To violate it, as I did, is sacrilege. ”

“And so your punishment was-“

“Banishment.” She spoke frankly and firmly. “I was exiled from the clan. My name was stricken from all record, forbidden from all utterance, and thus forgotten in the changing seasons.” Her eyes, clear as rain, did not mist over. “The clan, it was the only home I knew, the only family I’ve ever had. So when I was cast out, I had nothing else. There was – is – not a place or people in this land where I belong.”

As Mirra finished, she pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes at the fire. She had accepted this reality a long time ago and she was not one for tears. But still she sighed, a small ache forming in her chest.

She glanced at Thorin, who was clearly at a loss for words. When he realized he was openly gaping at her, he quickly averted his eyes and both stared awkwardly into the fire.

After a few suffocating moments of quiet, he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She frowned in confusion.

“For you have had to endure. And for resurfacing painful memories with my questions.”

“I do not need your pity,” she snapped. Immediately regretting her harsh tone, she added, “What is done is done.”

He nodded. “I know what it’s like to lose a home.”

She silently compelled him to explain. “Erebor,” he began, “was the kingdom of my people. It was the symbol of the dwarves’ greatness, the utmost pride of our people. Its halls stretched to staggering heights and the gates themselves were considered a wonder of the world. Visitors who came to pay fealty to the king would let their jaws shamelessly drop when entering the halls of Erebor.

“But most magnificent of all were the coffers of treasure that the kings of Durin – my ancestors – collected. Mountains of gold, heaps of gems; it was a marvel. But some say that the mind of the king, King Thror, slowly grew sour by the wealth of Erebor; he grew sick, they say, sick with greed, and came in possession of too much gold.

“And then came the dragon.” Thorin’s eyes blazed, his features turned black with fury. “We hadn’t a prayer of fighting it off; it was an unbeatable mass of hellfire and teeth and claws. It destroyed the nearby towns, including the town of Dale, and then came after Erebor itself. About half the dwarves escaped and fled the mountain. The others….” He bit his lip and put one hand on his face, struggling to hold back the water that had welled up in the corners of his eyes.

“We fled westward,” he continued once he collected himself. “My people now roam the plains of the Dunland, homeless, hopeless, lost. They are still of Durin's Folk but it is not the same.” He balled his hands into fists. “We are the dwarves of Erebor, who had wealth, honor, dignity. Our home lies in the Lonely Mountain and it always will.” His words were fierce and determined. “The day the dragon seized our home from us is seared into my mind and my heart; it has left a burn on my soul and I do not rest while he is there and my people are not. That day will never leave me.”

Mirra then realized what she had seen Thorin’s eyes in the blacksmith’s workshop earlier that day. It was a feeling of pain, the pain of loss and of lack of belonging. He held the bitter burden of wandering freely - though less like a free spirit than like a lost soul – without so much as a thread to bind him home. She had recognized that pain in him because it was familiar to her; it was a pain she held within herself, that she endured as well.

Thorin then silently pulled out a blanket from his pack and laid himself on to it, rolling to his side with his back to Mirra. Mirra put out the fire; it crumbled and flattened with a firm whoosh. She then laid out her own sleeping mat and similarly faced away from Thorin. Once she had found a comfortable position, her eyes fluttered shut, and the whispers of the forests lulled her to sleep.

~

Mirra took a pause. Her fingers began fiddling with a curious necklace pendant. Bilbo couldn’t make out the design very well, but it seemed to be interlocking coils of silver…

Her eyes caught him gawking and they flashed warningly at him. He quickly looked down abashed.

“Well,” she said after a few moments, “That’s enough for tonight.” Indeed, the sun was long gone now and darkness had settled on the wood. Mirra tossed Bilbo a blanket before retrieving one for herself. The ground was cold and hard, but they were too tired to care; sleep overtook them within moments.

-

“Are you playing me a fool, hobbit?” Mirra demanded, her eyes wide with shock. “You have never hunted before?”

Daylight flooded Mirkwood as they walked together through trees. Mirra with her bow and Bilbo accompanying her rather uselessly.

“Not all, to be honest,” he timidly admitted. “Well, my old gaffer once took me out as a young lad to go rabbit hunting, but I had no talent whatsoever and he never took me out again.” He then muttered, “Also because I’d weep for every one he’d kill…”

“What on earth did you eat, or do you eat in the Shire?” Mirra asked, genuinely flummoxed.

“Oh, we eat what we raise. Vegetables from the garden, fruit from the vine and orchard. You know, live off the land.” He spoke wistfully with a hint of pride and nostalgia. “Of course, we had meat, but it was cow and sheep and pig and poultry. Not much from the wild. Of course, I’ve had venison before-“

“Venison?”

“Venison.” He looked at her and realized she did not know what he meant. “You know, deer meat.”

“Oh,” she remarked quietly. “That’s what you folk call it.”

The eery, shadowy silence of Mirkwood swept over them.

“Do you live here?” Bilbo asked a while later. “Currently, I mean. In Mirkwood?”

“No, I ventured up here by whim some time ago. Twenty days, I believe. Not that it matters much.” She grimaced. “For all its preciseness, time comes to naught in the wilderness. You are born, and you die. That’s only when it really matters. In between, everything’s all up in the air.”

Bilbo nodded gravely as he listened. He had never thought of time that way before. It had always something he’d accepted as important. _But I guess_ , he shrugged, _she and I are of truly different worlds_. “So truly, you came here by a whim?”

“So I thought at the time.” Out crept a grin onto her face. “But through my years, I’ve come to be a true believer in fate; that the most random decisions, the ones you think are so trifling and little, actually some of the most important ones you make.”

“Like how you met Thorin?” He asked eagerly. The angry fire that flashed in her eyes, however, induced in him a pang of regret.

“Yes,” she answered slowly. “Like that.”

A crumple of twig and leaf and out whipped Mirra’s bow and she let loose an arrow and there was a sickening thunk in the brush, all within a matter of seconds. She walked over and lifted up the lifeless carcass of a rabbit.

Bilbo gulped; after all this time, the sight of dead things still bothered him. It always stirred something uncomfortable in his stomach and made his head feel light. What helped though was that Mirra made no face of pleasure or pain. To her, it was quarry, not a prize or an act of murder. It was necessary.

“I must say, it is astonishing to me that you and the dwarves were starving in here,” Mirra remarked bluntly.

Annoyed, “it wasn’t without trying,” he muttered. “Thorin” – her eyes flashed again at the name – “and the others really tried to find us food. It’s hard to feed a band of thirteen, you know.”

Mirra looked at him and realized she had offended him. “I’m sorry, that was harsher than I intended. It’s been a while since I’ve interacted with anything, any _one_ vaguely human, and never have I come across a hobbit.” She gave a shy smile. “I’ll admit Mirkwood takes getting used to.”

“I’ll say,” Bilbo agreed. He had softened from her apology. “Never would I imagine a forest to be as empty and barren as a desert.”

She let out a snort. Thinking it derisive, Bilbo waited for the inevitable sarcastic comment to follow. But it didn’t; much to his surprise, her eyes had lightened with genuine amusement.

Mirra then said, “You seem a little harsh yourself,” a teasing grin on her face. “Mirkwood is not exactly welcoming at first, but it is not impossible to live here. You just have to take a good look inside.” A rustle in the grass and Bilbo barely had blinked before Mirra let fly another arrow.

“Then,” she continued while examining the second rabbit she had just killed, “you find that whatever you were looking for was right there all along.”

-

Back at the camp, Mirra sat down and resumed her tale. “So the next morning…”

~

“I’m coming with you.” The words tumbled out of her mouth impulsively.

“What?” Thorin snapped incredulously.

“I’m going to go with you,” Mirra said calmly, ignoring his outburst. “I’ll accompany you to the next town. These woods are nearly home to me; I’ve spent much of my life here. I know the fastest paths and the quickest ways to nearly anywhere.”

Thorin was about to refuse her, but she interrupted before he could speak. “Once you have reached the next village, I will leave you. It is but a three-day journey if you go with me, where for most it would take six to seven days on the regular road.”

He still shook his head with a grumble. “I’ll find my own way.” Turning towards the woods, his pack hefted on his shoulders, Thorin then paused. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to accompany me? What do you stand to gain?” His eyes narrowed skeptically.

“I’m not sure,” Mirra murmured, staring at the ground. “It’s just…” She sighed and met his gaze. “I do not have a full grasp of how your…civilized societies work, but to me, I feel I owe you a debt.”

Now Thorin was truly puzzled.

Mirra continued slowly. “For making my sword. It seems wrong that I gave a stag to the man who merely passed on the task to someone else and not to the man who made it himself.”

Thorin’s eyebrows rose and he snorted despite himself. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

“And,” Mirra added, “you’re the first person - of the outside world at least- that I’ve actually, ever truly met. Who has talked to me, and to whom I have talked to in return.”

 _Enough, more than enough._ She felt her cheeks grow hot and she cursed herself for being so sentimental and weak, especially in front of a stranger. “It’s like you said,” she added hastily with irritation, “you and I both understand what it’s like to lose a home.”

 _Too much._ Mirra fixed her eyes on a spot on the ground, trying to control the rush of blood surging in her head and cheeks. _Oh, what a fine line there is between what is true and what was socially acceptable!_ She heard nothing from Thorin and thus cursed herself again. _Foolish words. Foolish words from a foolish, foolish_ fool _of a girl._

“Sorry,” Mirra muttered as she collected up her belongings hastily. She kept her back to him, afraid of the baffled look he was surely giving her. _Afraid? No, no. She did not feel fear. Not even for potentially alienating the first friend she’d ever had. For goodness sake, she was a–_

“No, don’t be sorry.” She froze at the sound of his voice. “It was…sorry, forgive me,” he stammered. Mirra felt a wry grin spread on her face. “No, yes, I…I’d like you to come with me.”

She stood up. The grin was packed away inside her and she returned her face to its customary stoniness. A long pause, then, “It’d be a pleasure,” she said; only her eyes gave the vaguest hinting of a grin. “Or however the phrase goes in your culture.”

He nodded, his mouth softening into a smile. “Not to mention it’d be probably serve you well to travel with a man.”

“How so?”

“Attracts less suspicion, you know, than a woman traveling alone.”

“I don’t understand.” Her brow was furrowed indignantly. “Do you think that women are unable to travel by themselves?”

“No, no, no,” Thorin tried to assure her, “I haven’t a problem at all, but there are some – other folk – that do not look so favorably upon a female of any race that travels unescorted. They think it is…unbecoming.”

She frowned still, and he sighed. “You’ve much to learn about the world”.

“Apparently,” Mirra retorted sharply.

And before Thorin could snap back, off she led them into the tangle of green, into the great forest untamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, this is the slowest story on the planet. I promise it will get good as Thorin and Mirra's relationship deepens but Thorin is an untrusting little bugger who lives a long-ass life. So sorry, sorry, sorry for everything.  
> (I did get to use the word 'flummox' though)
> 
> Note: on mirra-of-nowhere.tumblr.com, this is chapter 5/6 combined.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which trust is a trickle of a drought-stricken stream.

The muffled crunch of leaves trodden and swish of underbrush pushed aside were the only sounds heard in the quiet woods. Thorin and Mirra walked almost the entire day, but made no chat as they pressed on though the wilderness.

To be fair, they did try to make polite conversation at first. They each asked questions of the other, trying to learn more about the stranger they traveled with. But it became clear that it was a useless effort. After the previous night’s discussions, neither was willing to reveal very much more. Every question asked by Mirra about the dwarves of Dunland was met with a curt reply; every inquiry posed by Thorin about Mirra’s life was received with silence. Soon, equally frustrated, the two quietly admitted defeat. The need to talk passed and so they journeyed in silence.

“Thorin.”

Up snapped Thorin’s head from the forest path. It had been hours since they’d last try to speak. “Hmm?”

“What is a king?”

He stopped in his tracks. Is she in earnest? Her face was straight, giving no visible hint of jest. Apparently yes. He felt his mouth open dumbly, unable to form words.

Mirra took Thorin’s stunned silence to mean he failed to understand her question. “I mean, what does a king do?” she added. “And what makes one a king? I’ve heard it linked with words like ‘royalty’ and ‘lineage,’ but never quite understood what they meant. And I thought perhaps you’d be one to ask.” She blinked, waiting for his reply.

“A king,” he began slowly, still staring at her strangely, “is the leader, main leader, of a people or a region. One does not become a king; one is born a king. He rule all those under his domain – his subjects – and they swear loyalty and fealty to him.”

“But what does that mean?” Mirra asked. “What does a king do?”

“It depends. It’s not like being a blacksmith or carpenter, where there are specific tasks, where you have a clear start and end. There’s more to it than that,” Thorin mused. “Ultimately, a king is responsible for his people, for their welfare. Whatever befalls them, good or ill, falls upon his shoulders; and so the greatness or ruin of a people ultimately comes down to him." Thorin unconsciously straightened his back and raised his chin, acquiring an air of noble pride. No words from Mirra as she thought over what he had said, so they pressed on as quiet as before.

“A king seems rather pointless then,” she finally said a while later. “People take care of themselves. You are the only own responsible for your own welfare. What do you need a king for to do that?

“Not to mention,” she went on, “that since kings are ‘born, not made’, you can have a man, whose only qualification to be a leader is that he is his father’s son, become king and lead a people to ruin. And what makes a line royal anyway? Did the Valar long ago arbitrarily pick a man out of many to be royalty? Did they-?”

“Enough,” Thorin thundered, causing Mirra to nearly jump. “People need a leader, someone to follow without question. They always have, regardless of the opinions of nationless vagrants.” He spat out the word ‘vagrant’ like it was rotten fruit and then stalked on through the woods.

Mirra stood dazed for a moment in stunned silence. His anger came as a complete surprise for her; she had not meant her words to be cruel, but he had taken them as a personal affront. She frowned and glared after Thorin. they were true and she would not take them back.

Twilight now was nigh and so they began to set up camp in angry silence. The sinking sun cast a reddish glow over the trees before it finally fade behind the mountains and night fell.

 

-

Morning came, but the tension remained.

“I’m telling you, it’d be quicker if we were to cut through here-”

“No,” Thorin said firmly. “No deeper into the woods.”

Mirra narrowed her eyes at him, cold and detached. “I fail to see the point of trying to avoid the road if we travel so near to it.”

He only gave an irritated grunt. Truth was, Thorin did not want to be caught deep in hell and gone where he could not escape if Mirra’s motives were less than noble. Not that he expected her to be a criminal or spy – not completely, at least. Life had taught him to doubt and to suspect; trust was earned, not given out liberally like water from a river. Mirra felt a surge of hot frustration inside her. She took a deep breath and let it pass.

But the silence that ensued was smothering, saturated with tension. It was so palpable Mirra swore she could bite it, a sour taste in her mouth. The forest screamed around her. Her blood whooshed in her ears with every heartbeat. And Mirra found herself unnaturally aware of every breath she took.

A sudden flutter and crash of branches. All her nerves fired at once. A blink and she whirled around and whipped out her bow, primed with an arrow. Her shoulders were rigid, her eyes sharp as knives. Then a shrill shriek and a pair of brown-feathered wings above; a hawk had snatched a poor field mouse out of a nearby tree. Nothing more.

She closed her eyes and was about to relax when a cold gleam caught her eye. It was the glint of steel, of the sword held aloft by Thorin, his eyes wild with fire and fixated on Mirra.

Her breath caught in her throat. “Thorin,” she said as calmly as she could, “what are you doing?”

“Could ask the same of you,” he replied savagely. Mirra then realized that he hadn’t heard the hawk. And now her bow had fixed itself on his head.

She did not shift it though; Thorin had triggered an instinct in her for self-defense and now all her muscles were tensed and primed for battle, ready to strike.

“Who are you, really?” Thorin demanded. “Some spy? Assassin? Why did you follow me?”

“What on earth are you talking ab-?”

“Do not mock me!” he snarled. “Who sent you? Thieves? Orcs? Goblins? Tell me: who do you serve?”

“What?” Mirra was taken aback. “No one! I told you-”

“Yes, you ‘haven’t a kin or home in the world,’” he said with a sneer. “Touching story, truly. And remarkably convenient, too, to have a past so mysterious and vague.”

Mirra said nothing, but her eyes flashed coldly.

“So you do not deny you’re a liar,” the smallest twinge of surprise in his voice.

“You would not hear me if I did,” she replied. “You are not in your right mind. Now lower your weapon and-”

“You first.”

Neither of them moved.

Around them daily life in the forest proceeded as usual. Birds warbled, squirrels darted up and down trees, insects chirped and buzzed contently, oblivious to the icy tension ever mounting, ever rising between the two. Likewise, Thorin and Mirra took no notice of their surroundings; all their attention was fixed intently on their opponent. After several moments, Mirra cautiously lifted her left foot and brought it backward. Then she slowly took a step back with her right foot. All the while her gaze was locked fiercely on Thorin, as his blazing eyes watched her.

“Surrender so easily?” He let out a spiteful laugh. “Go on, then. Run. Like a dog. Back where you came from.”

His words pierced like blunted needles, but Mirra kept control of herself. He’s goading you. _Anger is blinding,_ she remembered from her training. _Do not let emotion ever guide your actions_.

“I go because I don’t wish to hurt you,”she replied.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he growled sarcastically. “The arrow aimed at my head seems to undermine your argument.”

“I do not kill unnecessarily.” Mirra continued to back away. “But if you attack, I no longer have any reason to hesitate to kill you.”

“Go ahead and try.”

A pause. Then a swish followed by a dull thunk. Thorin blinked; an arrow stuck out of an oak trunk three feet to his left. He turned back to Mirra and found himself alone among the whispering trees.

He scanned the brush around him and the treetops, but his muscles had already released and his gut declenched. She was gone. Thorin sheathed his sword with a mumbled curse and took a deep breath.

Then he turned around and stalked off towards the road.

 

~

Mirra looked down at her hands, examining her nails. Her face was as stony as usual, Bilbo observed, but the daggers in her eyes had softened as she told her tale. He wondered…

“Our paths did not cross until a few months later,” Mirra continued from where she left off.

 

~

She was on the road again. The forest where she had met the iron-eyed man was well behind her; but the cover of leaf and branch, she had not left just yet. She remembered not being edgy or ill at ease, which was as close to contentment as she could be.

That is, until a sickening smell sifted into her nose. It was a blend of filth and rot, uniquely foul. No mistake what it was, Mirra realized. She darted off the road. Her arms reached out to a tall tree branch and pulled herself up. She swung one leg followed by the other over the limb and up she clambered.

She had just settled on a perch hidden in the thick leaves when a deep growl made her breath catch in her throat. Down on the road stood three massive wolves saddled by three ghastly orcs.

Wargscouts. She muffled her breaths and dared not move an inch; any sign of life could give her away. It was lucky enough that a breeze put her scent downwind of the wolves. Just give it time. Keep still and give it time.

The orcs talked amongst themselves, their voices as harsh and biting as their nasty mouths. Shreds of their conversation drifted into Mirra’s hiding place.

“…lost the scent back ‘ere…”

“…ride back by nightfall…I’m damn near sta’ving.”

A deep growl interrupted them. The wargs sniffed loudly and bared three sets of savage yellow teeth.

“What’dya smell there, girl?” One of the riders looked down at his warg with a vicious grin. Mirra felt her entire body freeze. She did not risk breathing at all now.

Then a sniff from an orc. “It's smellin'…dwarf flesh,” he hissed.

“Oh, I love hunting dwarf.” Mirra felt her skin crawl.

And their beasts let out a roar as they pulled out their blades and with warcries and laughs the scouts took off down the road.

Once the forest had fallen quiet for several moments, out dropped Mirra from her tree. _Dwarf flesh… Thorin_. It clicked. The iron-eyed man. The blacksmith. The man who had pulled a sword out on her and accused her of being a spy.

She shook her head. He was no responsibility of hers. Why should she care if he were in danger? He had no faith in her so why should she help him? Why should she care?

No reason came to her, even as her feet took off in a run in the direction of the wargscouts.

 

-

An hour later, she finally heard the grating voices and growls of wargs again. Their foul smell was now mixed with another scent, a familiar one.

“So what’s a little man like you doin’ all alone in the big bad woods?” she heard an orc sneer. Creeping through the brush, she saw the three massive wolves, their hide enormous and their claws and teeth bared menacingly. They were circling a man whose face was hidden by a thick black curtain of hair.

“Oh, won’t talk, ay?” A nasty smile slithered onto the scout’s face. Then one of the warg blocked her view with its great belly. She nearly swore, but quickly bit her tongue for the wolf suddenly loudly sniff towards her. Its eyes lazily scanned the clearing, the smell of rot and blood in its breath. Finally, it turned its great head away and Mirra let out a sigh. She began quietly pulling herself into a nearby tree.

“Let’s make him squeal then shall we?”

“Oh, let’s!” One of the orcs pulled out a long, blackened knife and toyed with it, staring at the cornerned man with malicious eyes.

“You slime lay so much as a finger on me,” the man growled, slowly lifting his face to reveal two familiar steel eyes, “and you declare war on all of the people of Durin.”

“Ooo, I’m shaking in my boots,” an orc sneered, and the other two shrieked with laughter. “The Pale Orc is promising a hefty price for your head – actually the heads of all of the line of Durin - and you should fear him more than your little ‘people of Durin’.” Thorin’s eyes were slits, sparking with rage.

“Just his head?” asked another with a devilish grin. “He said nothing about the rest of his body?”

“Aye, I guess we’ll have to dispose of it as we see fit.” And they chuckled as a scout lifted a scummy blade over his head.

Twang. The scout let out a shrill yelp of pain, an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, and dropped his sword.

Out leapt Mirra from the tree, flashing her knives like claws as she descended on the warg closest to her. She fell seated behind the scout and promptly sliced a knife up his back through an exposed slit of armor, ripped him open like a pig for slaughter. A blood-curdling scream.

Her knife stopped at the base of his skull where she jammed it in till the hilt. The screams stopped. After helping herself to his sword, Mirra gave the limp orc a cold shove. The body fell with a dull thump.

The warg, roaring savagely, attempted to buck Mirra off. She thrust her daggers into the mangy hide and the beast reared with a cry of pain. With one hand on a knife handle to steady herself, she then raised the orc sword overhead and let it plummet down, slashing the warg deep in its rump.

One last howl, then down it fell on all fours. It lifted its head theatrically, and finally came crashing down to the ground. Mirra drew her knives from its back – each with a sickening squelch – and turned to face the second scout’s warg bearing down on her, teeth gnashing and eyes wild and black.

She reflexively side-stepped the brute and as it charged past, her right arm swung the orc sword up in a powerful arc. It met the wolf’s soft neck, prompting a horrible howl. Its rider lifted his sword towards Mirra with a snarl, only to let out a gasp as his gut suddenly erupted with agony. Out of his stomach stuck the handle of a knife, Mirra’s left hand on the hilt. She watched with cold, emotionless eyes as the orc let out a gurgling hiss, then fell to the ground.

Shortly after, his ghastly steed sank clumsily to the ground, the orc sword still stuck in its neck. She gave a strong yank to wrench it free, but it was deeply embedded in bone and before she could abandon it something rammed into her and sent her sprawling on the ground.

A groan unwillingly escaped her; the wind had been knocked straight out of her. She heard the malicious laughter of the third and final orc, an arrow still sticking out of his shoulder.

Mirra immediately jumped up, but the warg had already lunged towards her, its jaws opening wide, revealing every wicked tooth in its mouth-thunk.

A pitiful yelp lept from its nasty mouth as Thorin slashed his sword at the beast’s side. The wolf fell from its leap. Without a moment’s delay, Mirra hurled a small knife at the scout’s forehead. The orc slid off the wolf, his face permanently in enraged pain.

Slowly, her eyes cold evaluating the damage around her. A rasping roar caught her ears. The warg Thorin had struck laid growling on the ground, stubbornly clinging to life. Her face dark and grim, Mirra pulled out her own sword and approached the wolf. She closed her eyes. Down plunged the blade into the beast’s skull. A sickening crunch, a faint whimper, then the wolf was at peace.

Her hand reached out to the wolf’s limp head. Its fur was coarse and matted; her fingers brushed many a lumpy scar on its hide. She closed her eyes until finally she released the wolf’s fur. As Mirra stood, her eyes met those of the king-to-be, silent, questioning.

“I don’t enjoy killing,” Mirra said. “I’ve learned to respect the creatures around me, particularly in the woods, and no creature has earned more respect from me than the wolf. Even the Wargs bring me sadness to kill. People think them evil, but they are not born that way. They are born into bondage; they know no other way of life.”

Her eyes flashed sadly. She had said that before about her own childhood.

Mirra looked hard at Thorin. “I know your suspicions of me. But frankly, if I were a spy or assassin, the easiest thing to do would’ve been to stay back and let the orcs take you. It would’ve not have been an unbelievable death, and my hands would be clean as snow.”

She lifted an arm and pointed down the forest path. “The nearest man village is down there. When the path ends, you will reach the edge of the forest. Go west from there. It’ll be about half a day’s journey in total.” Mirra then picked up her sword and her pack. She bobbed her head with a polite goodbye at the iron-eyed prince and turned to leave.

“Thank you.” She stopped and flicked her eyes over her shoulder at the source of the murmur.

Thorin’s face was cold, but his eyes no longer flashed sparks. He did not deny that he was perhaps still suspicious of her. A moment later, Mirra nodded in recognition before setting off into the forest.

She had saved his life, no doubt about it. Now their ways would part and tomorrow would come and she would not see the iron-eyed prince for years and years, but today she saved his life.

And neither of them would easily forget that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combination of Chapters 7 and 8 on mirra-of-nowhere.tumblr.com  
> I'm trying to get this story caught up with that one so that all updates will be synchronized in the near future.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirra volunteers for a war.

~

The fire let out a crackle. Bilbo jumped, but Mirra didn’t so much as flinch. Her eyes gazed pensively into the black-blue trees of Mirkwood.

“Indeed, years and years passed. Not a particularly long time when you’re alone in the woods where time doesn’t matter, but it was long enough that I began to believe that the iron-eyed man and I would not cross paths again. Little did I know” – she let out a snort, and Bilbo could not tell if it was bitter or secretly held a smile – “that the Valar had other plans. It was winter in the woods outside Moria-”

“Wait, Moria?” Bilbo paused, then it came to him with a jolt. “As in, the Battle of Moria?”

“Yes.” Mirra raised an impatient eyebrow

“But that was almost…you can’t be…are you truly _that_ old?”

“Yes, as I've told you once before, and old enough to tell you to shut yer yap, halfling. Now, as I was saying…”

~

It was winter in the woods outside Moria, at the foot of the Misty Mountains. The black of night is not the color of winter, nor is it a snowy white. Rather it is a grayish brown, as the trees dry away and the animals slowly vanish. The departure of fall is slow. You don't realize what has happened until morning breaks without the song of the lark; until noon arrives and the sun beats only weak and pale rays on your neck; and twilight comes and the cricket bushes that once warbled and ke-ke-keetered endlessly have fallen quiet. That’s where the true chill comes from. Not from the white frost or darkening days, but from the sense of utter barrenness, of emptiness. Just you and the withered trees, a grim grayish-brown – the color of winter.

One such day, Mirra came across a sight she’d never imagined she’d see. As she watched from the bushes on the side of a road, a group of twenty or thirty short men, thick-bearded and grim-mouthed, marched down the mountain path.

 _Dwarves_ , Mirra realized. _Fully armed dwarves, no less_. Dressed in boiled leather and mail, each carried a sword or axe and a shield. They trudged with stern but weary faces behind one dwarf on horseback.

Had she not happened to look above the mounted dwarf, she would not have seen the beastly leer of a warg, peering down from a ledge above on the band below. It gave a low growl, its teeth sharp and terrible to behold as it looked greedily at the dwarves. Then it let out a wince of pain at its rider’s vicious kick; some rocks tumbled down from the beast’s claws.

One shout followed a clamor of shouts broke out among the band of dwarves. They drew their weapons and fervently gesturing towards the orc

“A scout! He’ll give away our position!”

“Someone take out that nasty rogue!”

Her pulse quickened, but Mirra held her position. _They’d take care of it themselves_. Two arrows, one after the other, flew towards the scout, but missed. The wolf leaned back on its powerful haunches and began to run along the mountainside away from the dwarves. _Don’t involve yourself. They can take care of it themselves. This is not your fight. This is not-_

“It’s getting away! By Mahal, don’t let it get away!”

Mirra dashed through the brush as she whipped out her bow. The warg, no longer held back by the necessity of stealth, broke out into a sprint on the mountainside. It soon outpaced her and became a steady target. _Perfect_.

Her bow took aim at the wolf’s rump and let out a solid twang as she released between a gap in the trees. The warg lifted its head, yelping in pain, before it rolled down the mountainside. Mirra ran into the path towards the beast and took her sword to the soft underside of its neck; the wolf let out a lazy gurgle as the blood splashed from its neck. Then, her eyes icy and bleak, she saw the thrown rider staggering away with a mangled leg. _Thwack_. Her arrow hit him square in the back and knocked him down to the ground, where he stirred no more.

There was a long moment of silence before Mirra remembered the dwarves behind her. They stared at her some with mouths hanging open, others with furtive eyes. _Should have left it alone._ She cursed herself. _Should have left it damn well alone_.

The dwarf on horseback approached her. She noticed his beard fell straighter than the others, with fewer curls, and did not wrap around his upper lip. His eyes narrowed quizzically, as if studying her.

The dwarf leader finally spoke. “You possess a fine shot, m’lady…”

“Mirra.” She was unswayed by his flattery.

“And what business have you in these parts, Lady Mirra?” His tone was smooth, but with a soft bite of suspicion.

“None of your concern.” It came out more harshly than she meant; five or more dwarves suddenly gripped their weapons more tightly. “I roam freely and serve none, save my own wellbeing. I am of the Dúnedain, if you must know.” _Give away no more. If you must, run_.

“A Dúnedain…ah, of course.” The dwarf lit up all of a sudden. “You’re a Ranger, then.”

 _What on earth is a Ranger?_ “I am.”

“Makes sense...”.

“And what of your name, and your business?” Mirra asked. The dwarves widened their eyes. Even the dwarf on horseback suddenly raised his eyebrows in surprise. _Did I do something wrong? Did he not just ask me the same questions? Do I not have the right to ask him?_

 “Balin,” he replied finally, as if he had just decided upon it. “Son of Fundin. Our business here is the filth and foulness that inhabit this mountain.”

“The orcs?”

“Naturally.” He grimaced. “We wage war against them, and we’ll laying our final strike soon.”

At this point, one of the older dwarves eyed Balin with an arched brow, bidding he say no more. Balin opened his mouth, but nothing more came out, so he made the signal to move out.

“Are you in need of another bow-man…err, -woman?” As soon as the words escaped her lips, Mirra realized that this was the question Balin wanted to ask her himself.

“I believe we could use one more, yes,” he replied with a crooked smile.

“Balin!” The older dwarf said loudly, looking reproachful. “A word, if you will.”

Balin eyed the dwarf and held up his finger to Mirra, bidding her wait. He and the other dwarf walked off to the side and spoke in angry whispers.

“…gone mad? She’s an outsider…”

“You saw the way she took down the rider…could be very useful…”

“…something about her that bothers my bones…don’t know where her loyalties lie…a woman no less-”

“Our numbers are lacking as it is, and so are our odds.” Balin’s voice rose with hushed urgency.

“…your voice down…the men should not hear…”

“We cannot afford to turn down men with half the skill she holds…put your trust in me, Groin.”

The second dwarf – Groin – gave a sigh and one last hard look at Balin. “…your decision, Balin.” Then he strode away, avoiding Mirra’s gaze.

Balin remounted his pony and looked at Mirra with a stern, but not unkind expression. “Follow us to the camps. We plan to strike at dawn.”

“Tomorrow?” She could not hide the surprise in her voice. _So soon?_

“Yes.” Balin replied slowly, waiting to see if her mind would change.

 A pause, then, “Lead the way, Balin, son of Fundin.”

-

Mirra quickly found that Balin was her sole ally in the camp. While the other dwarf soldiers did not openly strike or condemn her towards her, the darting glances and tightened jaws weren’t exactly welcoming. Occasionally, they'd give Balin furtive, displeased looks that he would ignore. In the end, Mirra was simply tolerated; the dwarves kept to themselves and so did she.

Not that there seemed to be much in them to rouse to anger. Mirra looked at the weathered dwarves who sat hunched around ebbing fires. Some clutched muddy blankets to stave off the sly bite of the wind. A few gripped whetstones with rough, dirtied hands and sharpened their swords, a monotonous metal scrape with every stroke. None spoke to Mirra, that was true, but nary a word was said between the dwarves themselves.

There was a dramatic age gap among the fighters; some had beards streaked with silver while others’ were just fledgling. Each man brought his own weapon, all of different sizes, shapes, and condition. What the men did share were weary eyes, grave and bleak as the dead trees around them. What the dawn would bring, what tomorrow may have in store, they understood. But they did not fight their fate with brashness and bravado; in grudging silence, they resolved to try, just try to live for another day.

“Excuse me, miss.” Mirra turned. Before her stood a small, wide-eyed dwarf. He pointed nervously at her hand. “C-could I perhaps borrow your whetstone? After yo-you’re done, of course, I mean…”

Her sword was sharp enough, so Mirra casually tossed the whetstone at the young dwarf. “Return it when you’re done,” she said quietly.

“Of course, miss,” he stammered. “M-much obliged, miss.” And he hurried away to his campsite.

 _What will become of him?_ Mirra wondered. _To all of them?_ She laid on her back with a frown. _Why do I care? Why do I involve myself in the business of others?_

Sliding a finger carefully over the length of her blade, the face of Thorin, his iron eyes glimmering, flashed to her mind. A sigh. _Because tomorrow, I will trust my life in the work of a dwarf, as I have for years now. The least I can do is have them place their trust in me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ that was depressing.  
> Quick Notes:   
> 1\. I'm following the book version of what led to Azanulbizar. As in, the battle takes place nine years after King Thror is beheaded by Azog in the worst planned mission ever (jfc Thror what the hell was your gold-addled brain thinking oh right it wasn't) (forget Mordor, one does not simply walk into goddamned Moria, for pity’s sake)   
> 2\. Groin is the father of Gloin and Oin. Since I imagine Gloin to be the more opinionated, aggressive of the dwarves, I thought it’d fit that he’d get that from his father.  
> 3\. Dwarves who I did not name (i.e. the little adorable one who reminds me of Ori) are not other members of the company. If you look at the ages of the dwarves, most of the company was not alive or not old enough to be here.  
> 4\. Ke-ke-keetered is a word I made up because I am a pretentious dick like that.
> 
> I'm still trying to catch this up with my Tumblr version of this, bear with me. I'm much happier with the writing I've done from this chapter on, so there will be much less editing/tweaking.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirra joins the dwarves in the battle for Moria (Azanulbizar).

She had never seen so many orcs in her life. They poured over the slope against the dwarves’ charge, an unrelenting torrent of black rippling down like the brooding clouds above. Crouching from a spot by the trees, Mirra drew an arrow back with a strong pull. As she released, the bow shot a tremor up her arm. Fifty or so yards away, a faint thunk and a charging orc suddenly pitched forward into the slope. By the time it fell, she had already nocked another arrow and taken aim at another orc barreling towards her. _Pwft._ The orc stopped in its tracks, its face twisting in sharp pain, and then toppled into the ground.

 _They’re getting closer_. The dwarves put up a gallant fight, but the orcs kept coming and coming, The relentless black sea pushed the dwarf charge back, back towards the edge of the valley, nearing the woods where Mirra and the archers laid. It was not long before she hastily stowed her bow away and whipped out her sword. Her breaths were drawn measuredly, and she fought the quickening trot of her heart as she rushed out into the open battle. No tenderfoot with a sword, Mirra had been taught how to fight since she was a child. But never had she been in a true, all-out battle.

All around her, steel clanged against steel, blade squelched against hot red flesh, and ferocious battle roars mixed with unbridled screams and howls of pain. The hibernal earth, parched in the dry winter air, now soaked in brown-red blood and sinew as foe hacked foe into the ground.

Suddenly, a goblin leaped before her, gnashing gruesome teeth. He thrust a mottled blade at her head. She ducked and then lunged forward, slashing his right shoulder. A spurt of blood splattered on her armor. Mirra spun quickly around and cracked her sword’s pommel against the base of the goblin’s skull. He crumpled to the ground in a limp heap.

 _Was it dead?_ Typically, Mirra would have plunged her sword into the goblin’s throat to secure the kill. But just then, an iron-studded club swept past her shoulder. Her feet instinctively jumped away and she turned towards a fearsome orc, He heaved the club up for a second blow, but Mirra was quicker. Before the club even began to swing, Mirra shoved a knife between his ribs. The orc let out a howl. Her foot sharply kicked him behind the knee, forcing him to fall. His hands clutched at the fatal stab wound in his chest.

Mirra left the orc there to bleed its last moments away. Something inside her twinged. _Always ensure your kill_ , she had been taught _._ That was a fundamental rule of combat, and now she’d gone and violated the rule twice. But it was not practical in battle; to completely secure the kill of every orc she met was to waste time and risk attack from a fresh foe. Mortal blows were more effective; she made a mental note to stick to them from now on.

 _Always ensure your kill_ ; the first rule to fall away in the heat of battle.

Mirra scanned the scene before her. Three orcs rushed by to her left. One ran into the blade of a dwarf’s battle-axe and dropped like a stone. A guttural cry to her right, and an orc roughly shoved away a dark-faced dwarf, its throat slashed open spilling murky blood. She automatically began plotting her attacks, where and when to strike-

Her muscles jerked violently and Mirra reflexively snapped herself into a forward roll. A blade swooped above her head as the orc blade cut through the cold air. _Fool!_ she scolded herself. _That could’ve been your head!_ As she rolled, her blade rotated outwards to her right. It made contact with a thick orc thigh, ripping open like a brimming waterskin. The creature dropped a hand to its gushing leg and howled in pain.

Mirra stood up, spinning on the balls of her feet, and rammed her blade into the orc’s gut. He gurgled and gasped; his foul breath rankled her nose. The orc went limp and she pulled out her sword with a cold yank. Mirra gritted her teeth, feeling neither guilt nor pleasure with the bloody work. She only steeled her jaw, lifted her blade, and rushed out to greet a fresh set of charging orcs.

 _The best attacks are cunning, prepared in advance._ That second tenet of fight rang pathetically in her head as she fought off one orc after another. No longer did Mirra plot ambushes; she focused instead on blows and counterattacks. 

And so she shed another rule of fighting, another law grinded into her bones from her early years, and let it fall among the carcasses of orcs she’d hewn.

The dwarven army held its own at the base of the valley slope. What the enemy had in numbers, the dwarves matched with heart, roaring fiery spirit, and well-crafted arms. But it was costing them dearly; even if both forces were equal size, the orcs were not mindless, inept beasts that could be easily overpowered. The mass of mangled bodies strewn over the valley consisted of nearly equal parts dwarf and orc. Moreover, the dwarfs still could not push the orc assault back up the hill.

 _Thud_. The ground shivered beneath Mirra’s feet. Then came the cries of multiple dwarves as they suddenly soared thirty yards over the battlefield. _Thud_. Mirra looked up slowly. Her stomach promptly dropped.

Before her, taller than a house, stood an enormous battle troll. Two long, bulky arms hung lazily next to tree-trunk legs. A thin metal breastplate covered its sprawling chest; a spiked helmet protected its stubby head; and around its neck rested a thick wrought iron collar.

Mirra whipped out her bow, taking aim at the troll’s shoulder. She let the arrow fly and the monstrous boulder with legs bellowed furiously. Two beady black eyes narrowed at Mirra. Then with a savage snarl, it began to stomp towards her. Mirra couldn’t tell if the earth was trembling or if it was just her legs.

As it lumbered towards her, one mottled, hulking arm hoisted up a massive iron hammer. Its eyes remained fixed on Mirra. She gulped. _Shit._

Down fell the hammer. Mirra ducked; a tremendous whoosh roared over her head. She leapt back, eyes riveted on the troll, her hand gripping her sword until the knuckles blanched. 

The hammer swung down a second time and she dodged the blow again. It instead met the bodies of two dwarves. They flew into the air, flailing and screaming until they hit the ground somewhere Mirra could not see.

A third time, the hammer came down and this time she leapt forward towards the troll’s legs. Shifting the edges of her sword and knife outwards, she slashed at its inner thighs. But no rip, no burst of flesh was heard. Once through its legs, Mirra whirled back around; her blades, much to her horror, had not left so much as a gash on the elephantine hide.

The revelation must have shaken her deeply, for Mirra did not notice the troll wheeling around, swinging its great hammer with it, until moments before it was set to collide with her. Automatically she leapt backwards, but not in time. The hammer smashed against her right shoulder; red flashed in bursts across the battlefield before her. Her right side seared with white-hot agony, but she only let herself emit a thin groan of pain as her back slammed into the dirt.

Above, a hazy glint of iron against the black clouds. A jolt whipped down her spine and Mirra hastily rolled to her left. The massive hammer hurtled down on the spot where she had just lain. The earth jumped and danced at the impact. With a snarl of frustration, the troll pulled the hammer out of the ground and hoisted it overhead, stretching the blotchy gray hide of its bulging stomach. Once again, the hammer came crashing down and once again, Mirra rolled out of its way. Her shoulder smarted as her weight pressed it against the ground. She tried to get up, but her legs fumbled. _Not quick enough_. Lying back down, she prepared to roll once more, awaiting the next blow.

It didn’t come. She lifted her head. The troll had gotten distracted by several intrepid dwarves slashing at its legs. In the process, the spiked helmet had fallen off the beast’s head. The troll also forgot about the hammer, which lay entrenched in the dry, bloodstained earth.

The dwarves shouted ferociously, flourishing sharp battle-axes and chopping at the hide, though to no avail. It was hard as stone; nothing could pierce it. The troll grew irritated with the dwarves’ hacking. Two mighty hands swatted at them, knocking them away like flies and Mirra could hear the sickening, cut-off screams as two huge feet carelessly trampled over the dwarves.

A metallic shimmer caught her eye. Trodden into the soil was a thick metal chain. It was long but light enough to maneuver. She wondered… _No, too risky. Remember the rule: rashness is a sure path to death_.

Another sudden dwarvish scream jerked Mirra out of her thought. She grit her teeth. _What other choice have I?_ She grabbed the chain and pulled out her bow in a single, sweeping motion. Once primed with an arrow, her bow fixed itself at the troll’s elephantine back. She fired the arrow, and with it she released a third rule of fighting – _Never do anything reckless._

The arrow thunked into the small of its back. The troll howled so violently that Mirra clenched her fists to keep her muscles from shaking. The troll whirled around; black flashing eyes blinked at Mirra’s bow. Its mouth twisted into a furious snarl twisted into and let out a thunderous roar. Then the troll started towards her with a _thud, thud, thud,_ a quicker pace than before, with neither hammer nor helmet. Mirra’s heart _thum-thumped_ against her ribs.

But she stood her ground, squatting her legs into a fighting stance. Her eyes glittered fiercely; the long chain swung calculatingly in her hand. The pain in her shoulder had numbed, or perhaps she just took no notice of it. All her attention now fixated on the approaching troll.

 _Come to me_ , she dared it silently. _I fear thee not_.

The troll broke into a lumbering charge. It lifted an arm up and let it swing down to swat her. Mirra gracefully sidestepped the blow, darting between the troll’s legs. Once behind the two-legged boulder, she jumped up; one hand grabbed the arrow jutting out of the troll’s back. Her other hand freed a stretch of chain from around her back.

With a hard, desperate throw, she flung the chain around the troll’s torso and grabbed the end as it came around. She did this multiple times until the chain wrapped around the troll’s rib cage, right and left shoulders, and neck. Next grasping an end of the chain in each hand, Mirra hoisted up her feet onto the troll and began to scale its back.

Every step was a struggle as the beast thrashed and wheeled about beneath her, but she did not stop until both heels dug firmly into the beast’s upper shoulders. She crouched down, shifting her weight and balancing as best she could. Then, in a swift movement, her legs snapped up and her arms wrenched the chain back with her.

Moments stretched into hours as the two-legged boulder brayed and bucked under Mirra. She struggled to both choke the beast and hold her ground on its back. Her limbs cried for release; her muscles throbbed and were on the verge of bursting. Sweat poured off her body like water from a stream, blurring her eyes and sting her open wounds.

The troll continued to flail its arms wildly overhead, trying to expunge the strangling force on its back. But the chain wrapped around its shoulders restricted its range of motion. The beast finally managed to grapple at its neck. Two desperate hands gave a yank powerful enough to readily uproot an oak tree. However, the troll, much to its dismay, beheld only its iron collar, now bent and split at a seam.

The collar revealed a ring of pale, pinkish-gray skin around its neck, notably softer than the rest of the troll’s rocky hide. Mirra’s eyes widened; fate had clearly smiled upon her. Her aching arms rose to shift the chain around the pink flesh.

She crouched down once more. Then Mirra thrust her body up and pulled with all she had left in her.

The troll jerked up its head in an attempt to roar roar, but could emit a choked cry. It continued to flail, but now with much less intensity, much more wearily. Stumbling and teetering as Mirra held her grip, it fought for raspy breaths, but was slowly losing the fight.

Then just as Mirra though she could hold on any longer, _thoom!_ The troll collapsed to its knees. The jolt threw Mirra off and she slammed into the dirt. A moan of pain escaped her lips and she spat out pewtery blood. A moment later, the earth shuddered violently; the troll, at long last, toppled to the ground.

Mirra staggered to her feet, breathing raggedly. Every limb pounded with pain, every inch of her body was utterly battered and worn. _Breathe. In, out._ Mirra tightened her jaw. _Do not let the pain guide you. Do not-_ A scorching pain pulsed in her right arm. The injury that had dulled in the rush of battle swiftly returned. She winced involuntarily and grasped her shoulder

 _Slash_. White-hot pain now ripped up Mirra’s left side. She let out a cry. White stars burst before her eyes. Warm blood spilled from the gash in her waist. Her hand grappled for her knife, but a hard kick to her ribs overpowered her. Mirra fell to her knees, gasping for breath.

An orc stood over her sneering. A foul liquid dribbled from grimy, pointed teeth. It reached out with a mud-smeared, disfigured hand and grabbed Mirra’s throat. Then with a savage grin, it lifted a blackened sword over its head.

Mirra coolly took a breath. _So this is how it ends_.

The blade plunged down and she did not look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the utter lack of Thorin here, he will be making a very emotional appearance in the next chapter (post-Azanulbizar)


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which victory is a hollow melody, sung by naive children, that masks ugly undertones of death, gore, and destruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: no light amount of gore description, some wounds described in detail, extreme feels

_Thwack_.

A spurt of blood splashed onto Mirra’s face. It took her a few hitched breaths to realize it was not her own. Above, the orc convulsed in pain.

 _Thunk_. Embedded in its throat was a burnished, bloodied head of an axe. A stiff hand released Mirra’s throat and the orc fell dead on the ground.

Mirra remained frozen on her knees, shocked that she could still blink, breathe, move. Warmth unfolded upon her back. Overhead, sunlight peeked faintly through the gray clouds. Perhaps it foretold a turn in the tide.

A heavy hand clapped her out of her stupor. “Up!” a deep voice barked. “On your feet” All of a sudden, pain felt irrelevant. She nodded and silently obeyed. Before her stood a surly, muck-coated dwarf. A striking brown mohawk stuck out of his grime and sweat-slicked head.

He scowled at Mirra, though it seemed less out of malice than out of natural harshness. “Now stay on your feet, soldi– hold on.” His head abruptly cocked to one side; two smoldering eyes studied Mirra’s face. They grew round. “You be human!”

Mirra merely gave him a look. _Not the sharpest axe in the bunch now, are we?_

“And a woman, no less!” The mohawked dwarf glowered at Mirra and grabbed her arm roughly. Small iron plates covered his hand. “This is no place for you. Away with you!”

Mirra wrenched herself out of his grip and struck the muscle on his upper arm. In a flash, she whisked out a knife and crouched low in a fighting stance. Her nerves sparked and flared and her veins pulsed with the rush of battle.

The mohawked dwarf’s brow darkened. Each shot a blazing look at the other. He gave her a spine-chilling sneer, swinging two short battle axes, as if silently daring her to charge him.

It was then Mirra realized that around her, other dwarves stared at her with blinking eyes. They had seen her grapple with and strike the mohawked dwarf. Now she was facing him down, one of their own. Their faces darkened. Something lurched inside Mirra. No longer was she an ally in the dwarves’ eyes; in fact, to them, she was as good as an orc.

Mirra swore under her breath in frustration. _I can help you!_ she wanted to scream. _I_ am _helping you!_ But it would’ve been no use. Facing now two foes, there was nothing more she could do. One last look at the mohawked dwarf – still watching her with darkened eyes – and she took off running.

Past bellowing dwarves and snarling goblins, she ran. Through hacking axe, slashing sword, and grappling limb, she ran. Heart pounding as her feet pounded the earth. Her lungs endlessly on the verge of burning. She ignored it. All around her, fierce war cries, clanging metal, and squelching flesh as she ran.

A far-off roar pierced through the general clamor of battle. Across the battlefield, Mirra saw a terrifyingly tall orc. It wore nothing but a leather wrap around its gut and groin, revealing bald, blueish-gray skin riddled with deep scars. A black mouth opened and out thundered a savage, war cry. Over two burly shoulders, it raised a massive flanged mace, then swung it down in a wide, swooping arc. The mace smashed against something solid. Up soared a shield from the hands of a dwarf with thick, black hair. _Could it be…?_

The terrible mace swept around again and struck the dwarf in a glancing blow. He flew backwards and rolled into the ground with a thud.

No clear thought ran through Mirra’s head as she began sprinting towards the dueling orc and dwarf. Ducking, dipping and weaving through the battle as though by instinct, she stopped atop a gray boulder jutting out of the valley.

There was a clear view of the monstrous, pale-skinned orc loomed over the black-haired. It began hurling a series of blows relentlessly upon its prey. The dwarf escaped the first few swings, and then heaved up a thick tree branch to block the remainder. Every blow prompted a ferocious roar from the dwarf, his brow furrowed and his face dark with predatory fury. Two eyes flared with iron fire.

Mirra inhaled sharply; there was no mistaking the dwarf now.

Her fingers fumbled over the arrow as she prepared her bow. She mumbled a frantic curse. Another powerful blow from the monstrous orc smashed against the tree branch and Thorin fell back with a pained growl. His sword flew away and clattered traitorously to the ground just out of arm’s reach. From behind Mirra’s ears picked up the booming shouts that she recognized as the mohawked dwarf’s as well as a hoard of dwarvish cries. No doubt they were closing in on her. Mirra, however, did not move.

The arrow was finally nocked and immediately she raised her bow. The pale orc whirled around with the vicious mace and let out a savage bellow. Thorin watched it unflinchingly with fearless eyes, clutching the tree branch with one hand as his other searched blindly for his sword. The bow quivered; Mirra’s shoulder was shaking under the tension. At her back, the dwarvish yells grew louder and louder, almost upon her.

The pale orc heaved its tremendous right arm up towards the sky, gripping the terrible mace, glinting coldly in the sun. It paused for a moment. Then the mace hurtled towards the ground, towards the fallen dwarf.

Mirra released the arrow. It shot into the orc’s left hand. With a cry of pain, the orc’s body shifted and the mace fell down safely away from the iron-eyed man’s head. Without a second’s hesitation, Thorin’s hand reached for his blade and swept it upward. It sliced off the orc’s left hand, arrow and all.

Bloodcurdling howls echoed off the mountainside as the orc stumbled wildly onto its knees, clutching at the black bloody stump of its left arm. Thorin watched coldly as the beast bawled and thrashed frantically in pain. His face was grave, devoid of mercy, of remorse. Then, turning away the squealing remnants of his foe, Thorin thrust his sword upwards and let loose a thunderous, ferocious roar in triumph. He was joined by a booming chorus of dwarves.

“Hey!” The bark of the mohawked dwarf pulled Mirra out of her daze. _Time to go_. She shoved her bow away, leapt off the rock, and rushed off at a manageable pace towards the trees.

Mirra plunged into the forest. Her heart hammered away, her legs seethed with fire, and fatigue slowly seeped into her bones. Soon, the battle was out of sight, fading to a low, but nearby rumble in her ears. She slowed to a trot and leaned against a tree. Suddenly, all the weariness and sharp pain from her shoulder and side slammed into her like a wild boar. Mirra suppressed a choked cry of agony. Her pummeled body slumped down the tree trunk and landed hard at its base.

Carefully, Mirra removed her leather armor and lifted up her tunic to examine the damage in her left side. There lay a wide, deep gash that ran from her stomach around to her lower back. It was mostly clotted, but still oozing some blood. _Could be worse._ Reaching into a leather belt pouch taking care not to twist too much, she removed a pot of salve. Gently and meticulously, she swabbed her fingers through the thick goo and applied it to her gash. It stung to touch.

As she treated her wounds, a loud roar swelled from the valley, followed by the thundering of hundreds of feet. Mirra’s brain swam in a muddled sea of throbbing ache, ebbing and flowing like waves of red through her body. But in spite of her daze, she could’ve sworn that the yells and heavy footfalls belonged to the dwarves.

-

After an hour or two, the woods fell preternaturally quiet. No longer could Mirra hear the cries and clangs of battle. Having wrapped her wounds, Mirra grunted her way up the tree and began walking cautiously towards the battlefield. At the edge of the clearing, she found a bush to hide in. She crouched down slowly and awkwardly, trying her best not to reopen the gashes beneath her bandages.

From the brush, she saw the sun shining a weak yellow over a carpet of limbs and legs and torsos and faces that stretched from the trees to the mountains’ foot. Dwarves, maimed and torn apart, with faces distorted and beards matted thick with blood, laid amongst the remains of dark, scowling orcs. The surviving dwarves stood solemnly among the fallen. So small, so few they seemed, striding with gray faces as they looked down at the stone bodies of their former comrades.

The battle had been won indeed, but looking just upon the endless spread of mangled faces and corpses, Mirra could not tell by whom.

Nearby stood a huddle of about six dwarves. One was the iron-eyed man, sporting a heavy layer of grime and a smattering of cuts. He and the other four dwarves stood grim-faced around a stocky, long-bearded dwarf who sat upon the ground. Two young dwarf-healers attended to what seemed to by his eye.

Mirra could only follow bits of their conversation

“…many men perished?” asked one dwarf coolly. His face, though just as blackened as the other dwarves’, was composed, betraying no obvious emotion.

Another answered quietly. Two other dwarves visibly stiffened. “…over half our original numbers,” responded one of the stiffened dwarves. A somber silence fell upon them.

“Have we enough…enter Moria?” asked the seated dwarf in a booming voice, one that naturally demanded one’s attention. Even as he sat, his bearing was lofty and his chin held high and dignified. There was something familiar the way the seated dwarf carried himself.

 “…doubtful at best, your Majesty…,” one dwarf replied timidly, dipping in and out of Mirra’s earshot. “Even with our full strength…even more goblins…cannot forget what lies within….Durin’s Bane.” Many a dwarf went pale.

“Aye…strongly advise against it, your Majesty,” added the cool-faced dwarf. His frankness stirred a sense of admiration in Mirra.

The seated dwarf stroked his long beard. “…disappointment, Dáin, son of Náin, my kinsman. I would brush aside that risk because I have faith…after all, the turn of the tide today would seem rather fortuitous…of days to come.”

“M-my lord,” stammered a third dwarf, “…must disagree…the men…no longer at your disposal…done their duty today, this bloody, bloody day… Durin’s Bane…now they must return to their, um, r-respective h-hou-houses.”

He finished in a fluster, as the seated dwarf leveled at him a threatening eye. The cool-faced dwarf, immune to the glare, came to his comrade’s defense. “Unfortunately, my lord…correct…should not dare enter the mountain.”

 And so the dwarf-king fell quiet in contemplation. The dwarves who stood above him shifted uncomfortably on their feet, with the exception of Thorin and the cool-faced Dáin. “…shall accept this victory for what it is – a victory – and press the little luck we have no more,” he finally declared. His fist punched the air with affirmation. His eyes glanced around. “You have been awfully quiet, Thorin _Oakenshield_.” He nodded with a soft smile at the weathered tree branch in Thorin’s hand. “What say you of this matter?”

The iron-eyed dwarf lifted a disheveled black head. “Be my words of weight to you?” he answered with an edge of gruffness. “Have you not already decided, my lord?”

“Speak; I would hear your thoughts nonetheless.”

Thorin took in a long, deep breath. “I wonder,” he said slowly, “if the thousands of soldiers who now lay before the foot of Moria gave their lives to decorate the valley of Azanulbizar.”

A wave of shock struck the other dwarves; even Dáin stared blankly at Thorin.

“Thorin.” The dwarf-king narrowed his eyes. “It brings me no pleasure either to come so far only to have to relinquish our chance of retaking Moria.”

“Really? The decision seemed to take but a heartbeat.”

The seated dwarf-king flashed Thorin a look that could have set fire to cold stone. “Son,” he growled menacingly, “be careful with the venom in your tongue, or you may very well ingest the poison yourself.”

“Very well,” Thorin snapped back, “then I will join all those who died for naught today!”

“Thorin!” The dwarf king thundered as his son stomped off. “You will _not_ turn your back on thy father _or_ thy king!”

And Thorin did pause. He looked back over his shoulder with a smoldering look. “Forgive me,” he snarled, “will _his Majesty_ grant me leave to find the body of Frerin, my brother and his youngest son?” His eyes did not glitter from just anger.

The dwarf-king opened his mouth, but Thorin had already stormed away. The valley fell silent once more, the air thick with death.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Mirra made out the vague figure of Balin. He leaned against another dwarf - the mohawked dwarf, to her great surprise. They rested their foreheads together, heads cast down, hands gripping the other as their faces squinched up and released in muffled sobs. They were _crying_. All around them lay their fallen comrades, splayed and unmoving, skin gray as ash. They stood alone among the masses of dead, weeping softly for those who never would stand again.

Mirra’s eyes swept over the countless waxen faces lying on the ground, some old, some barely bearded. One young moon face, round and soft beneath layers of muck and crusty brown blood, stared with helpless eyes into a great invisible beyond. _Those eyes…_. Mirra’s breath caught her throat. They belonged to the stuttering youngling who had asked for her whetstone.

Alongside him lay what used to be a dwarf; his face was battered and smashed beyond recognition. A tuft of red hair poked out beneath his helmet and memories flashed before Mirra’s eyes of the little dwarfling boy, Haro, in the forest so long ago. _Was he here to day, here in the rage of sword and shield and rain of blood?_ What if he was? He would have been as young as the whetstone boy. Perhaps it would have been merciful to let the arrow go that day. Quick, painless. All would have ended for him there. He would have been spared the carnage, the blood and pain but now he joined the stony, blue-white corpses that stared with sunken, unseeing eyes. A chill ran down Mirra’s spine.

 _Oh for heaven’s sake, get a grip on yourself._ She shook her head and swallowed the lump in her throat. _What is the matter with me?_ It wasn’t that she had not seen death before, in animals, in men and women, in children. Pain and suffering and death; these were familiar creatures to her, so close at hand since her childhood. It was normal. _It was normal._

_How should this be so different?_

As she looked up, she caught sight of Thorin bent down over the prostate body of a stony-complexioned dwarf with hair as black as his own. He knelt close to the brush where she hid; she made a great effort to quiet her breathing as she watched him behind the brambles.

Thorin looked calm, bearing that cold, weathered demeanor that she suddenly remembered so well. Gazing upon the dead dwarf, he reached out and pulled up a limp hand. So pale it seemed in the blackened hand of the iron-eyed man. Thorin gripped it and pulled it towards his chest. Holding it there, he closed his eyes and mumbled something under his breath. Then taking great care, or perhaps in great reluctance, he placed the hand down upon the dead dwarf’s chest.

Then it happened again, like it did in the blacksmith’s backroom. In Thorin’s eyes, the sharp metal seemed to melt and reveal something bright and soft and… _vulnerable_. Mirra almost felt shamed to look upon them, so naked and bare. Then he raised a large hand and rubbed his face wearily. The iron crept back in and closed off the softness. No longer did his eyes glisten, but his mouth was still pulled tight. He stood up but not before he whispered some last words that Mirra did not have to hear to understand.

 _Farewell, brother_.

And with that all went blurry as the world misted over. The air was stifling, suffocating and left a lump in her throat as big as an apple. She could not get rid of the picture, the stonelike dwarves with their big eyes and blueish-white skin. _For pity’s sake,_ why _can’t I keep control of myself?_ Mirra took off running, not caring if Thorin heard her rustle in the brush. She just had to run. _Get a hold over yourself, girl. Get. A. Grip._

Fat raindrops trickled down her cheeks from clouds that had long since gone by.

-

The sky was a clear, pasty blue; the gray clouds of the morning had rolled away with the tide of the wind. But no warmth drifted down from the sun’s rays; there was no freshness in the snapping teeth of the dry winter breeze. Not upon the valley here, at the foot of Moria, where victory was a hollow melody, sung by children who thought of war as colorful banners and sparkling trumpets, that masked ugly undertones of death, blood, and destruction.

 _Oh, Frerin_.

The body he kneeled before was as cold and blue as the sky above him. The hand he clutched, so delicate and vibrant in life, now weighed uncomfortably in his palm like lead. Frerin looked all wrong; the moon face that earned the endeared coos of many a dwarf woman was smashed and bloodied, missing chunks of flesh as if mauled by a bear. The pinkish baby skin (there was a running joke about Frerin’s skin; he would at first pretend to be insulted by it, then dissolve into laughter along with the family) had cooled like stone, a sickly yellow wax. The red mouth from which laughter once rippled like sunlight had closed for good, the choked blue lips slack and smileless.

Those lips would not smile again. They were sealed forever, and never would they open and bring joy upon the world like they always had. Thorin never told Frerin that; how even when he tagged along a little too often or chuckled a little too loud or took a prank on his older brother a little too far, Thorin always enjoyed having his baby brother nearby. He always loved his baby brother.

Loved.

_Still loves. Even in death._

His shaking hand brought the unnervingly cold fingers to his aching chest. The night before, Thorin saw in his mind’s eye Frerin fighting fiercely before the orcs, roaring like a bloodlusting lion. The memory of Frerin’s first orc raid swam to his aching mind. Thorin had told himself that as soon as his younger brother had survived his first fight, his sword had tasted its first orc, war would lose all its glamour and glory. That was indeed very much mistaken. Frerin seemed to revel in battle; it was a game to him – nearly a pleasure, but Thorin dare not call it that – that he enjoyed for it made him feel more than alive. Although Thror and Thrain clapped their hands on his brother’s back with proud smiles, it never quite made sense to Thorin. For he thought of battle as a duty, a cold bloody business that one _must_ do and never will enjoy doing it.

Perhaps then, this end was fitting for Frerin. _Oh, Frerin, Sweet, lively Frerin._

 _Farewell, brother_.

As he lowered the hand, there was a scramble of leaves and brush in the thickets before him. A tuft of brown dart into the wilderness. Was it a deer? He did not care to check if it was; it didn’t matter. _Nothing matters. We are food for worms*. The good die like the evil do. We all return to the rock from which we came regardless of what we’ve done_. A cold stone hung heavy inside him where his heart was supposed to be.

Thorin stood up, sucking in a breath as the aches and cuts that he had disregarded in the heat of battle came rushing back him. Before him lay the gruesome carpet of bodies that stretched over rocky mounds, farther than he wanted to imagine. Death saturated the air, an invisible linen shroud that snuck into Thorin’s mouth and smothered him until his throat burned, until blurry became the world before his eyes. No, none of that right now, for he was a prince, a leader of his people, and he could not afford to break down like a youngling at such a time.

No matter how much he wanted to.

 _Here, Father_ , he thought bitterly, _is your prize for victory. Here are the spoils of your war._

Something silvery glimmered amongst the smashed limbs and bodies. Entrenched in the ground, in the center of a monstrous footprint, lay a peculiar sword. Peculiar, because its black-bloodied blade was smooth and its hilt extraordinarily plain, not dwarvish at all. Thorin pulled the blade carefully from its earlthy encasement and frowned as he scrutinized it. For some reason he could not place, it seemed familiar…

In the oppressive silence came a pair of raised voices, belonging to two bickering dwarves, mud-caked and blood-encrusted (was that what he looked like?), one with long straight hair, a striking brown mohawk protruding from the head of the other.

“…I made a call, Dwalin, that’s the full of it,” said the long-haired dwarf, composed yet stern.

 “That’s the bloody full of it, eh brother?” sneered the mohawked dwarf, spitting in derision. “Who says ‘twas yer call to make? How’dja know she wasn’ some double-crossin’ orc spy?”

“We needed more archers, I was willin’ to take the risk-”

“Oh ho!” bellowed Dwalin. “Now who’s actin’ like a rash young’un, Balin?”

Balin narrowed his eyes and shot a dark look at the other dwarf for interrupting him. “An’ wouldn’t you say it paid off?”

“‘She’?”

Both eyes snapped up at Thorin’s quiet question, their faces stricken from his sudden appearance. Then Dwalin turned to his brother with a mirthless smirk. “Yea, Balin? How d’ya mean by that?”

After flashing a scowl at his brother, Balin turned to Thorin with a steady, but slightly sheepish expression. “M’lord, the…the day before, my brigade was comin’ around one of the mountain passes and stumbled upon a warg scout, only to have it shot down in the blink of an eye by this archer woman. She introduced herself as a Ranger and volunteered to join us in battle. I knew we needed more archers so I agreed to it-”

“By who’s authority, Balin?” jeered Dwalin.

Balin ignored him. “-and I confess that I did not ask for permission, figurin’ the worst that could ‘appen was she double-cross us and we fell her in battle.”

Thorin took in a deep breath and looked sternly, but not coldly, at his friend. “You should’ve passed this by myself or the king first.”

“Understood, m’lord.” He then bit his lip, flickering his eyes up to Thorin as if he wanted to say more, but his mouth remained politely closed.

 “Tha’s it!?” The calm exchange seemed to incense Dwalin even more. “Balin lets a woman – a mannish female – into our army and he gets off with ‘Ye shoulda tol’ me first’?!”

“It should make no difference that she is a woman,” Thorin replied quietly, and Dwalin fell mute. Throin remembered the ferocious brown-haired woman he had met at the blacksmith’s shop long ago. _I_ wonder…but this warrior Balin spoke of was a Ranger, and that woman had not even that title to call herself. _“I have no kin to claim, nor place to call home…”_

“…coulda’ sabotaged our troops, killed our king or his ‘eir!”

“But she didn’t, did she?” Balin retorted with a bite. “In fact, I’d even say it’s thanks to her that we can all stand here and talk about it. You especially, m’lord.”

Thorin realized Balin’s eyes were fixed on him. “Why me?”

The long-haired dwarf gave a smile Thorin knew well; a soft, smuggish grin that crawled out whenever Balin knew something that another didn’t. “In the midst of the battle, as I was clobberin’ orcs left and right, I saw her atop a rock, kneeling down, her bow out as still as the mountain itself. It was fixed towards you and Azog, lord Thorin” – Thorin cursed darkly in Khuzdul at the name – “and you were on the ground, obviously in a fix. Jus’ as he was about to bash yer head in, she shot an arrow at him-”

“- and it lodged in his hand,” Thorin finished for him, grimacing at the memory. _So_ that’ _s who his savior was; some mysterious Ranger born from the wilderness._ “It distracted him long enough that I could get up and take care of that limb for him. Saved my life, that arrow did.”

Balin nodded with the air of a father proud of the accomplishment of his offspring. “An’ that was right after she wrangled the troll.”

Thorin blinked at him, and let out a wry snort. Balin did not however join him.

“Singlehandly," he added. "E’en my brother can attest to that.” A loud smack as Balin clapped his hand on Dwalin’s back, nodding his head in solemn affirmation while Dwalin growled like a sullen bear.

“Reckless, ‘s what I’d call it,” spat Dwalin, though not denying his brother’s claim.

“Very funny, the both of you,” said Thorin weakly, early staggering from shock. His mouth opened and closed and opened again dumbly.

The mohawked dwarf laid a thick, grimy hand on the prince’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. While Balin still maintained a manner of respect towards Thorin, Dwalin had dropped such pretenses long ago. “’S no joke. Though I wish it was.” His eyes were solemn, giving no hint of jest. Thorin’s head hung down in shock. The plain sword shimmered in his slackened hand.

“I don’ see her here anymore.” Balin peered grimly around the wasteland of grey and red bodies. “Her name is lost on me too, ‘m afraid. Something odd like ‘Mary’ or ‘Muryn’-”

“Mirra.” It was a statement, not a question, as the realization struck him like a blunted axe. Both brothers turned towards at Thorin all of a sudden with him sharp looks.

“Yes, that’s right,” Balin said slowly, his brows raising in confusion. “You know her then?”

A vague, weary nod. “From long ago.” Thorin stared down at the sword in his muddied hand, his expression as baffled as his comrades’. “I made her a sword once, this one. Then…I was ambushed by a warg-scout pack in the forest, and she saved my life.” He left out the part of him shamefully accusing her of spying and intent to murder.

 _And now she’s come back._ Thorin shook his head in disbelief. _Why? Why did she come back? What does this mean? Why have our paths crossed years later? Superstition would call it a sign, but when it’s a human woman? A vagrant? Whose past I know so little about that she could be a spirit?_

“…thank her, m’lord.”

Thorin blinked at Balin. “I missed that, sorry?”

 A smile, soft and earnest like a kindly grandfather’s, crept over Balin’s face. He patiently began again. “She’s saved your life twice now, Thorin. It would seem you owe her a debt, especially since you are now in possession of her sword.” His eyes flickered down at the blade and Thorin could’ve sworn there was a mischievous gleam there.

He shook his head uncertainly. “No. My duty is to my people-”

“Many of whose lives are also in debt to her,” Balin finished smoothly. “Go. It’s the honorable thing to do.”

A pause, then Thorin nodded his head firmly and out emerged the king-to-be. “Tell my fath- the king that I have business to attend to on my own. I intend to set out tomorrow.”

“ _Mahal_ , ye can’t be serious-”

“And Mister Dwalin should be reminded of his place,” said Thorin in a voice like ice.

He had seen kicked pups that looked less betrayed and dejected than Dwalin at that moment. Thorin maintained his sternness, but softened his tone as he turned towards his chief guardsman. “Our friendship run strong and deep like veins of ore, but I will be your king one day and you must not forget that.”

Somber eyes peered deep in Thorin’s, then the warrior nodded and hardened himself once more. “Understood, m’lord,” he mumbled, the words stiff and awkward on his tongue.

“Good.” Thorin clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture that Dwalin returned gratefully. He then turned back upon the valley and grimaced. “Get the axes and every dwarf we can spare. Pyres need to be prepared before we can turn our backs on this wretched place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to wipe Mirra's tears and give her cookies :(  
> You few (you weary few) who have gotten this far, congrats, that was no easy feat considering how shitty my writing is (first fanfic, whoohoo!)  
> Canon elements: Frerin was Thorin's brother who did die at Azanulbizar; Thrain lost an eye here as well (the movie decided he was one-eyed long before Azanulbizar, but whatevs); Dain Ironfoot was also here (in the book he's the one who fights Azog, but the movie changed that); and after the battle the dwarves collected the weapons of the dead (so the goblins couldn't take them - they were damn good dwarf-made weapons), cut down the trees nearby, and burned the corpses on pyres since burial (the usual custom for a dead dwarf) would take too long.


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirra comes across less than savory individuals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: detailed portrayal of slave market - potentially disturbing

_I need a sword._

Three or four months later, Mirra found herself on a familiar path: roaming the forest beneath budding trees and springtime green. The air was crisp from a newly fallen rain; it felt refreshing in her lungs.

But there was the weight of her sword (or lack thereof), which lay lost somewhere among the acres of hewn bodies in the brown Azanulbizar valley. A stone dropped in Mirra’s chest. Physically, her shoulder and side had healed, leaving modest scarring and little lingering ache, but the carnage was as fresh in her mind as though it had happened yesterday.

No, no more thought of that. She shoved the memory in a box in the back of her mind and set her mind to her new task: acquiring a sword.

True, she had gotten on fine without one so far. By keeping to the woods, away from society, no trouble had come to Mirra where her bow and knives did not suffice. But a little voice hounded her so incessantly that every so often, she was ready to throw down her pack and have a full-on argument with herself. _Better safe than dead,_ it whispered. _Better safe_ … Her teeth grit together and she harrumphed. It was right. _I need a sword._

Her train of thought was suddenly broken as up ahead, a large wooden wagon clattered down the forest path towards her. It was pulled by two bobbing horses, and beside them strode two scruffy-haired men with shabby cloaks. Mirra whipped her head towards the bush bordering the road. _Too late_ ; they would have already seen her, so now if she did anything but stroll past casually, it would look strange and draw attention, attention she did not seek. _Dammit. Bloody social conventions._

Atop the wagon’s chair sat a slouching pinched-face man. Mirra suddenly found the brown crumpled leaves beneath her feet absolutely riveting. _Do not meet his gaze. Do not meet their eyes and you can pass right on by._

“Mornin’, miss.” _Damn._ She raised her head with a weary sigh. The wagon had stopped and the thin man peered down at her with black eyes. One hand held a slack set of reins, the other a thin pipe which he sucked on loudly. Behind him lay a dirty gray canvas, beneath which laid several peculiar lumps.

 “Or, m’lady, pardon me.” The thin man smiled widely, revealing slick yellow teeth. “Was’ a lady like you doin’ roamin’ ‘round these parts?”

“Business that’s mine to know.”

“Ho ho, feisty, are we?” He let out a shrill hee-haw. “But I guess i’s understandable; the’s no tellin’ what bad, bad things might be lurkin’ in the woods, especially if you’s travelin’ alone, eh?”

At that moment, her eyes darted to the wagon; she could’ve sworn that a lump had just shifted beneath the gray canvas.

“Well?” The thin man gave her a look that for some reason made the skin on her back crawl an inch.

“Well what?” she replied.

“Aren’t ya travelin’ alone?”

She nodded her head automatically. Suddenly, a small prick in her neck.

Her nerves twanged and snapped like bowstrings; frantic fingers grasped for her knife. The forest tumbled and reeled all around her. She stumbled and with a thump hit the ground, a rolling sea of hazy red-black. All grew darker and ever smaller; she was dragged into a dark cave that whose walls she could not touch until – and Mirra did not remember the precise moment – the world vanished and the darkness swallowed her whole.

-

Heavy eyelids opening, immediately engulfed by a flood of glaring white. Knees aching hard ground. Hands lying limply in her lap, tethered by gnarled coils of rope rubbing her wrist raw. Every bone laden with iron, every muscle limp and languid. Her mind whirling in soupy fog. Heat rolling on her brow in oppressive waves. Everything swimming in warping shapes and swirling color; a thick veil laid over her eyes

Her silent screams to move, move, fight back, for gods’ sake, proving useless. Heavy limbs refusing to obey, as if belonging to a stranger.

Trapped, not by rope and bindings, but by her own treacherous body, her own muddled eyes. Mirra was trapped.

Suddenly, overwhelmed by something yanking around her neck, sealing off her airways. The force dragging Mirra upwards onto scrambling feet. Red bursting before her eyes, the world reeling like a hot sea in flashes of black. Her brain shrieking, shrieking in tortured silence for air. Then releasing her, the force melting away as quickly as it had come over her. Heavy ragged breaths drawing in hot dry air. No more red bursts, but the haze remained. Her neck aching and tender, encircled by a thick, knotted rope weighing heavy against her chest.

Lifting her lolling head. Steep pitches of thatched roofs black against the blinding white sky, all around. A clamor rising from a vague mass of pale-skinned men, watching her with faces of stone. Beside her, swarthy men hanging heads of ragged black hair, with hands bound like hers, their backs bent like old pieces of leather.

A shrill call cutting over the chatter. The voice gnawing against her throbbing skull. A round, red-faced man standing before her and the other bound men, braying something about “our valiant men and boys abroad” – followed a rumbling roar of cheers – and “the savage men of the Harad” – met with loud boos and jeers. Words swimming in the shimmering air like strapping young men and a woman to boot, tamed and ready to work; just 60 silver pieces, oh, what a bargain this is, folks, yessir, step right on up.

Suddenly, a second yank around her neck and two hands roughly grabbing her shoulders to push her forth. The rope then slackening; recovering in soft heaving breaths. Pale-faced men approaching, chattering rowdily. Eyes studying, hands pointing; poking her arms, prodding her legs, pinching her flesh. Weakly wriggling to escape, to flee from the uncaring eyes and the hot sour breath and the stifling billowing sun above. No use; the grips too tight, the ropes too thick. Trapped, at the mercy of jabbing fingers and pitiless eyes like a yoked ox.

Sore jaws clenching. White-knuckled fists balling. A red, rolling sea boiling beneath her skin.

One man reached with fat, shiny fingers and fondled her clumped, mousy locks. He beheld her with beetle eyes, smacking his lips, curling them into a hungry sneer.

A squeal as Mirra’s teeth sank into his outstretched hand. The taste of salt and animal muck burned her tongue. She released his hand and with bound hands, she delivered a quick double punch to the man’s gut. A smirk of triumph as the man squawked and folded over in pain.

Two pairs of hands ripped her backwards and flung her to the ground. Three kicks landed in her chest, another in her lower back, and another in her head. Red bursts filled her eyes. An uproar up above, crying “hellhound” and “she-wolf” and “throw that thing back in its cage, will ya.” Her legs cautiously coiling up as she spat out metallic blood. Black splotches swirling in and out of the pitching world. Every sliver of her saturated in unabating pain until it was all she knew.

Dimly aware of hands dragging her away like a sack of flour. Still writhing in defiance, each thrash met outside by a sharp blow, inside by acute spasms of pain in her ribs. Shadows creeping up, up, slowly eclipsing the blinding sun. The voices fading to a thin, far-off drone.

Thrown to the ground again. A small, involuntary groan as throbbing bones hit dirt. A powerful yank, the strongest one yet, pulling her up to her knees with sputtering gasps. Above her loomed the thin man, quivering with rage. Mirra spat at his brow; his sharp slap stinging her cheeks and leaving a ring in her ears.

“Bet’cha think yourself so damn clever,” he sneered. Trying to concentrate, to make out his snarl through the waves of black. “Well guess what” – seizing the back of her head ferociously and thrusting it back – “you ain’t done no such thing. Now you ain’t worth a heap of pig shit.”

The icy touch of a blade hovering just above her throat. She did not flinch. The thin man leaned his face in closer; her neck curled under his hot, moist breath. In her ear, he hissed: “Time to say goodnight, she-wolf.”

There was no pain when something struck her temple with a hard blow, nor was she really aware of the surprised “Oy” when her head was released and her body floated down to the ground, which then disappeared into nothing and took her along with it.

-

As soon as her eyes next opened, Mirra snapped her head up in search of the thin man and his partners and anyone who dare sport with her. There was none to be found. In fact, she found herself lying not on packed dirt, but on cool crispy leaves in a forest clearing. In the place of heckling crowds and sharp-pitched roofs, there was undergrowth swishing softly and birds quietly trilling. Sunlight fell on her shoulders not in sweltering blows, but in gentle caresses of warmth.

“At last, you’re awake.” Mirra leapt to her feet with a jolt, only to buckle over as a heavy ache overwhelmed her. It thumped through her chest and throbbed in her head. She crouched low by a nearby bush; her legs were stiff but still ready to spring, primed for attack.

Mirra snarled at the owner of the gravel voice. A man, bearing a black beard and a blue cloak, sat twenty yards away in front of a small flickering fire. She was suddenly aware that it was dusk; the air grew cool and a warm purple settled upon the tall oak trunks.

“Dinner’s almost cooked,” the man grumbled, gesturing towards the fire; a golden, flabby bird rested on a spit over licking flames .He lifted his hood and for some reason, Mirra felt no surprise to see the face of the iron-eyed dwarf.

-

“Come,” Thorin said. “You’ve been out cold for nearly a day now, you must be hungry.”

The crouching woman gave him a startled look; her stomach let out a rumble. But she remained where she was, poised on the balls of her feet, glaring at him beneath a darkened brow.

Thorin frowned. “I won’t ask twice. If you want food, lo, here it is.”

Several moments passed and she still showed no intent of moving. Something in his jaw twitched, but he bit his tongue until his anger passed. Cuts and bruises bespeckled her face, and Thorin knew with a heavy sigh that beneath her tunic was a more vibrant, more ghastly array of contusions The Malar knew what hell she had endured of late. “Suit yourself,” said Thorin. He removed the bird from the fire and dug into his meal, aware but paying no attention to the watchful set of eyes upon him.

After roughly two-thirds of the bird carcass was devoured, Thorin laid the rest in a leather cloth beside him. He looked over at the crouching woman; her eyes darted from the leftovers to him. Still she did not move.

“We’ve met before,” Thorin said quietly. “I recognized your face in the market yesterday, from years ago.” His gaze dropped and he shifted in his seat. “I made you a sword, and you saved my life.”

For several long moments, there was naught but the pop of the fire and the whisper of the wind in the darkening forest.

“Mirra. That’s your name, if memory serves me well.” A cautious glance up, and for a split second, the cold seemed to thaw in her feral glare.

“It was by chance, you know, that I happened upon that mannish settlement.” The word “mannish” provoked a growl from Mirra. “I had parted ways with my father and my people six weeks prior, to…attend to certain business of mine.” He chose his words with care and hesitation, so as to reveal only what was necessary to reveal. “I journeyed south from the Dunland alone, towards Gondor. Most nights I rested in the forest or on the grasslands, until the night before last.

“It was growing dark and another night sleeping outdoors was nigh when all of a sudden I came across the mannish town. The thought of a hearty meal with ale and a bed…struck me as necessary in light of the journey ahead.” His eyes turned hard with iron, as if daring an invisible audience to find fault in his judgment.

 “At daybreak, I made to leave town, but on my way out, I came across a great crowd gathered at the market square. When I saw what they were looking upon…”

Thorin pursed his lips and closed his eyes and paused. The sun was long gone by now and night had fallen upon the wood. Orange firelight danced with shadow upon the weathered brow of Thorin, who suddenly seemed very old and very tired. It was though ten years, not four mere months, had elapsed for the bleary-eyed, leather-skinned dwarf.

“Slavery disgusts me,” declared Thorin after a long, heavy silence. He fixed his gaze down away from Mirra. “Those men who beat you to a pulp, they got half of what they deserved.” An idle finger ran over a small of set of blue marks on back of his hands. “You’re welcome to stay for the night, seeing as you have nowhere else to go.” And at that, Thorin stood up, pulled a burly blanket out of his pack, and rolled it out beside the fire. With a weary thud, armor and all, he sat down upon it, lying with his back to Mirra.

For several minutes there was a thick silence upon the dark wood, just the dying fire crackle and the hoot of a distant owl. Wood creaked and his ears perked a peculiar sound, the sound of Mirra quietly nibbling the leftovers he had left on the log.

The hint of a smirk crept on Thorin’s face before sleep settled over his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s play how-far-can-I-stretch-Middle-Earth-canon-here. After seeing PJ’s sleazy portrayal of Bree in FOTR, and given that Gondor and the Haradrim were mortal enemies for ages, I feel like there would be some equivalent of slave auctions in Middle Earth. I used accounts from American slave auctions to get a believable portrayal. But other than that, I’ll admit this is not really canon. Money, however, is canon in the Tolkienverse.   
> Yes, this is the fourth chapter I've added in one day, sorry.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirra recovers from pain within and without.

They traveled for five days in near total silence. The only talk that passed between them came from Thorin’s barks to rest, eat, sleep, move out, repeat; part of a coarsely administered regimen to make her well. Whenever Mirra refused a meal, Thorin now shoved it directly into her hand, forcing her to eat or leave it to waste. His voice naturally blunt and authoritative, it might have mended Mirra’s injuries if he simply ordered them to heal. The silent woman did not seem resentful of his gruffness, however, so Thorin did not worry about his inability to be tender.

The one thing however that she refused him was attending to her injuries directly. Each night, Thorin tried not to watch as the woman wordlessly applied yarrow poultices to the ghastly bruises that mottled her ribs and back. But occasionally he stole a glance at the wide blotches of sickly green-purple; it reminded him of the men who did this to her and it made his blood boil.

Daybreak of the sixth day came. Thorin awoke at dawn; Mirra was still asleep. The lesions on her face and scrapes around her wrist were no longer an angry red, and she did not wince anymore from every breath on account of her bruised ribs. However, as she slept, leaves rumpled from her frequent shifts to and fro. The pale morning light caught the furrows of her restless face. The woods’ serenity could not reach her even in her sleep, Thorin thought with pressed lips. After watching for a short bit, he set out to find breakfast.

~

“How do you know that?”

“Know what, hobbit?” Mirra glared down at him.

By this point, however, Bilbo had grown used to it. “How did you know what he was thinking?”

“He told me,” she replied as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

“He told-” His brow puckered into a frown.

As Bilbo mulled this over, Mirra simply looked at him. “It was much later that we recounted our days together,” she said with a shrug. “He told me his memories, I told him mine.” There was an air of sadness in the way she said it.

“Right, makes sense,” muttered Bilbo. “Erm, sorry for interrupting.”

Mirra for once gave him a mute nod instead of a scolding or snarky remark. Maybe, he supposed, she was growing used to him too.

~

“Where are we headed?” Thorin nearly tripped over his boots. The source of the unexpected murmur lay motionlessly on her hide blanket, staring up at him as if she had never been asleep at all.

Iron eyes flashed in irration as Thorin collected himself. “We are not headed anywhere,” he said with more harshness than needed. “I am to rejoin my people as they journey…westwards.” Ever suspicious, ever careful was the dwarf. “Our roads will diverge when you are well enough to travel on alone.”

She nodded, pushing herself up by her forearms as she sat up gingerly. Thorin frowned. There was something about the woman’s dull eyes, her paleness, and her unsettling quietness that gave him a few misgivings about just how recovered Mirra was.

Sometimes dwarves came out of battle or a trying time and they were not quite right. He had seen it even while at Erebor. The outer scars closed up and faded, but there were inner wounds that never fully healed. Something festered in their mind; they grew quieter and quieter, their laughter rang hollower until it disappears altogether. They died long before they drew their last breath. He did not know why, but the sight of the quiet woman before brought to mind those afflicted dwarves. And maybe

 _What does it matter?_ With a disgruntled shake of his head, Thorin marched into the forest to gather roots. Behind him Mirra set about began arranging a cooking fire. _You are the son of a king._ Thorin silently scolded himself _. All signs say that she is better. Your place is with your people; your duty is to their welfare. There is nothing more you are required for her_.

He dug up some grubby wild onions and walked back to camp. Mirra held a frying pan over a small fire; within, black pod-like things sizzled and cracked. She picked one up quickly and took a bite. Her teeth split it with a dry crunch. Catching sight of Thorin, she offered the pan towards him. The carcasses of five shriveled crickets met his eyes. “Want one?”

Thorin looked as though he had bitten into a watermelon-sized lemon. Eventually he choked out a “No!” to which Mirra shrugged and popped another cricket in her mouth.

After overcoming his initial repulsion, Thorin brought out his fistful of onions. They were suddenly snatched from his hands. Mirra gave them a sniff, paused, and then threw them one by one far into the woods out of sight.

“Wha- what on earth are you doing?” bellowed Thorin.

“Death camas,” she replied calmly as the roots went sailing into the thickets.

“That was wild onion, my breakfast, you-“

“Smell.” She thrust the last remaining white bulb up to Thorin’s nose.

He sniffed indignantly. “I smell nothing.”

She nodded. “It’s called death camas. Look likes onion, doesn’t smell like onion.” She hurled it between a pair of tall oaks. “One bulb causes your stomach to empty however it can. A meal’s worth and you’re dead in a hour.”

Thorin’s mouth twitched as he fumed in silence. “Hmph!” He pivoted on his heel and plopped down before the fire to feed bits of leaves and kindling. He kept his back to the woman who had ruined his breakfast and made him feel like a fool.

Mirra, on her part, ignored the pouting prince. One hand picked up a long branch; her other hand snatched a jagged rock. She began scraping the rock over the tip of the branch, shaving it to a slight point to make a crude spear.

 _This is her only weapon_ , Thorin realized peering over his shoulder. The slavers had stripped her of everything she owned; everything she ever owned, most likely.

The childish anger let up and in its place arose a gray solemnity. _Perhaps that explains the unusual quietness._ The memory of Erebor arose, the blazing inferno of the firedrake that swept through Dale and the mountain, forcing the people who had dwelt there for generations to flee their homes, flee for their lives. A gritty hand wiped away a wetness in his eyes. Would Thorin not be abandoning her by leaving?He recalled the elves who arrived upon the disaster only to turn their backs, to desert the dwarves when they needed them most…

Mirra saw Thorin’s hands drop into fists and his upper body stiffen. After his outburst just a moment ago, she misread the cues and thought the worst. An instinct snapped. Mirra leapt backwards to her feet, gripping the stick with white-knuckled fists. Thorin whirled around, hand darting instinctively to his own sword. Mirra’s eyes flashed in alarm. Her worst fears seemed to be confirmed.

 _No_ , a tiny voice inside her whispered. _Not again. I don’t want to fight him._

But before she could flee, an ear-splitting squeal erupted in the forest. Her heart jumped up to the top of her throat. Crashing in the bushes, a massive boar tore into the grove. The shrieking mouth revealed two thick ivory tusks, glinting coldly in the sun. The beast barrelled headlong towards Thorin.

The dwarf just barely sidestepped the charge; he rolled to the ground as the boar rushed past him with a howl. Thorin immediately sprung to his feet, snarling and baring his teeth as he gripped his sword aloft. His eyes gleamed ferociously and locked on the boar. It wheeled around the clearing in a furious trot. The misshapen tufted head lowered threateningly towards Mirra. Screeching a cry that knifed his ears, it proceeded to charge her.

Mirra stood her ground, crouching low in a feral fighting stance, her face tight but composed. The boar raised its tusks, preparing to gore her as it hurtled towards her. Just as it got within a few feet of her, Mirra spun and dodged the ferocious pig.

But the boar learned its lesson from earlier. Shifting its path, it managed to slam Mirra in the gut. The blow threw her balance and she tumbled to the ground. Mirra released an involuntary cry of pain as new wounds mixed and molded with old ones in a monstrous surge of white agony. The boar lunged forward in a triumphant squeal. Gripping the makeshift spear, she shoved it lengthwise against the corners of its snarling lips. As Mirra held it firm, her feet faltered beneath her but eventually she found herself on her feet – at the precise moment that the boar made a powerful launch forwards. It forced her stumbling back against an oak trunk with a loud grunt. From there Mirra grappled with the boar, pushing back against the thrashing boar with all her might to keep the dangerous tusks from goring her sides.

Thorin came rushing to her aid, raising his sword overheard to hack down on the beast’s left side. “ _Groin_.” His head snapped towards Mirra, her brow slicked with sweat, her teeth gritted. “ _Hit. The groin,”_ she growled.

Beneath the boar’s tail was a pale-pink patch of flesh. Without further delay, Thorin’s sword swung down and slashed against the soft skin. A large spattering of red; a blood-curdling scream from the beast. Releasing a guttural war cry, Thorin whirled around and thrust the blade into the boar’s neck. The thrashing ceased; it let out a gurgling moan. Hot blood streamed onto the dwarf’s hand as he extracted his sword. The boar fell limply and crumpled to the ground, a red most tongue lolling from its open maw.

For several moments, the forest fell dead quiet apart from the ragged breaths of Thorin and Mirra.

In the chaos of the fight, the contents of Thorin’s pack had strewn across the clearing. Among them was a sword, shorter and much plainer than the one Thorin kept on his hip. Mirra snatched up the blade. Then moving like a ghost, she stepped towards the boar’s carcass.  

The blade rose up and Mirra began to hack at the boar in a wild fury

Her gray tunic grew red as it soaked up flying dribs of blood. The boar’s hide became a gory mess of slits and slashes. Every blow drew a sickening squelch; every stroke fell with as much intensity as the last. Her face darkened, but remained unnaturally calm as she went about the bloody work.

"Mirra! Stop! Stop!” Thorin finally cried. At last, she stopped. The dripping sword fell limply to her side in defeat. All the fury fled Mirra like a doused flame. Her head bowed and her shoulders drooped as if overcome by a sudden and immense exhaustion. Her hands were ever so slightly trembling.

Thorin froze, dumbstruck at the sight of this feral woman, tough as granite, abruptly wilting like a dried-out flower. It was…it was…

“I...” he started to say, but Mirra lifted a finger to her lips. Wordlessly, she pointed at the boar’s hide; out stuck a bloodied, brown-feathered arrow. Then came the far-off shouts of raucous men, and he understood.

Thorin was about to gesture into a bush opposite of the nearing hunting party to say _let’s go_ , but Mirra was already off. One fist clutched a dripping hind leg of the boar. The iron-eyed dwarf paused for a moment before huffing after her into the gray-green thickets.

-

An hour later, the pair was dipping their hands and swords into a cool, babbling brook. They had not said a word; not unusual. Mirra sat peacefully as she busied herself with scrubbing her borrowed blade.

“Mirra.” Her ears twitched up at her name. “What ails you?”

The sword gleamed a sliver of white from the meager rays of sunlight slipping through the thick dark brnaches over head. Mirra pulled out of the creek and began wiping it on her trousers. “’m all right,” she mumbled without meeting his eye.

“No,” Thorin snapped back. The anger in his voice surprised even himself. “The sword may be clean but your bloodied shirt remains and it tells me you’re not all right. What happened back there?”

No answer.

Thorin grunted, rubbing his temples with two gritty fingers. “You have been troublingly quiet for days now. If it’s about what they took from you, I’m sure that you can-“

“All replaceable. It matters not.” Mirra dipped the blade back in the creek. “I’m not what others call ‘sentimental’. Attachment is impractical when loss is inevitable.”

This made Thorin pause. For a moment, it was as if Mirra was not a person but a mirror to his own cynicism. “Then what is it?” he asked quietly.

Her lips parted for a moment, but no words came forth. They sat there wordless for what seemed like an age.

Finally, Thorin’s patience ran out. He clapped his hands on his knees and sat up with an exasperated grunt. His heavy boots thudded upon the forest floor. Silently hefting it over his shoulder, he prepared to leave, not giving so much as a second glance over his shoulder

 “You’ve forgetten something,” said a tiny voice behind him.

He whirled around. Mirra stiffly held out the sword she had borrowed from him. He had not thought to ask for it back; had she said nothing, she could have kept it and had a sword for herself. His jaw fell slightly at the gesture. Mirra herself could not hide the tightness in her face.

“It’s yours to keep,” replied Thorin, dipping his head soberly.

“Don’t give me your charity. You have saved my life twice-“

“And you’ve saved mine thrice, most recently from my own breakfast.” A shadow of a smirk.

Mirra was unamused. “I don’t want your pity and I don’t want your sword.”

“Good, because I do not wish to surrender my sword.” He clapped a hand on the hilt as his hip. There was a twitch of a smirk beneath his thick beard. “That sword is yours, truly.”

Her hand tightened around the hilt of the modest sword, the grip feeling quite familiar as she was about to retor- _wait a moment_. Her eyes flew down to the blade. The grip, the utilitarian design, the pommel with a stain of black goblin blood; it all came back to her. The sword she beheld in her hand was none other than _her_ sword, the very one she had lost at the dwarven battle.

She snapped her head up up to Thorin’s face, eyes flashing with bewilderment as a million and one question darted back and forth across her mind. Her mouth opened, then closed.

Thorin, by comparison, was quite unperturbed. “It was lying in the midst of the felled bodies at Azanulbizar, looking very undwarvish,” he said conversationally. “I found it along with I heard talk of a quiet archer woman who wrestled a fully-grown battle troll on her own.”

“The least I could do” – nodding at the blade – “was return that to its rightful owner.” Two eyes of iron fire burned keenly into her own.

Mirra scanned the blade, then glanced up at Thorin, then back down again. Her throat felt dry and thick. A dreadful silence fell between them. Not a palpable one that fills every nook and cranny of your being and suffocates you, but the opposite; a void that begs to be filled even if you have no desire to put forth the words that it demands.

“The men who shot the boar will find its body useless.” Tumbling out it came, like a river dammed up far too long that had been just let loose. “The hide is ruined and the meat unusable. And it would be a greater shame to claim credit for such wastefulness than to return home empty-handed. They will be forced to leave the boar. I however” – she held up the hairy boar leg matted with bloode – “will have the animal’s hide for leather, its tendons for sinew, its hooves for glue, and at least one night’s dinner. Above all, at least one more creature won't be made powerless to the cruel abuse of men."

Her eyes, clear but wavering upon the word 'powerless', flicked up to the iron-eyed dwarf; his eyes burned right back at her. Above, the sun had shifted in the sky. Its light overcome past the thick tangled treetops and reached in tendrils down into the grove. The shining brook rippled with tiny crests of silver.

Mirra heard a soft rumbling; Thorin was shaking his black shaggy head, snorting softly beneath his beard.

She narrowed her eyes into slits. “Do you mock me?”

“No,” he answered with a lightened tone. A few of the dark furrows in his brow smoothed. “I had believed your act of vengeance to be a sign of something…worse.”

She frowned. “While what precisely you call ‘slavery’ is new to me, I’m many times familiar with the treatment I received six days ago”.

The humor faded as Thorin stared at her intently, a peculiar look in his eyes that Mirra could not identify. One iron-toed boot took a cautious step towards her, then the other. He approached her with slow, deliberate footfalls, then crouched down beside her on the balls of his toes.

“It has occurred to me,” he said slowly, taking great care in his words, “that that blade will not last you long. It was prefabricated, cheap; that’s how it was forged so quickly.” Was there a look of guilt upon his brow?

“My people are master smiths, and you’ve proven yourself honorable to me- the dwarves on more than one occasion.” His expression became quite grave, as if he were making an official decree before a royal court. “It would be disgraceful for me to leave you with such a poor compensation for your services”.

“I told you I do not want your-”

“I am not offering pity,” he said roughly. “I am offering you gratitude, in the form of dwarven steel. Do you accept it or not?” He leveled a testing glare at her.

Mirra took pause, contemplating the proposition. “You offer me this freely?” She raised a dubious eyebrow.

“You have more than paid for it already in saving my life.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I want to work for the right to own a blade.”

“Fine,” replied Thorin irritably. “If that is what you wish. My people will need help settling into the Blue Mountains, their temporary lodgings.” He put a growl the word ‘temporary’. “An extra hand would be welcome. And you may keep that sword for the journey.”

Both stood up and Mirra shoved the sword into a loop in her belt. A smile threatened to slip onto her face, but she manage to stifle it.

For once, someone was not waving her off as a rogue or a vagrant, throwing blows and scowls at her, or treating her like a wild animal. For the first time in a very, very long time, she might be accepted or even welcome somewhere. A warmth unfolded within her like a butterfly fluttering its wings.

Lost in her thoughts, Mirra nearly walked straight into Thorin. He held out a thick, gritty hand out towards her. Two hefty metal rings glittered on his fingers.

She tilted her head in confusion. “Can I…help you?”

“It’s to confirm our agreement,” he rumbled impatiently.

Mirra blinked, not understanding.

“You _. Shake_ it.”

 _Oh, right_. Hesitantly, she grasped his hand. The calloused fingers felt warm and rough in her own. Her body tensed when Thorin’s grip tightened, but she forced herself to relax; he meant her no harm. Mirra let Thorin raise both their hands up, then down in a sturdy shake. He eyed her strangely throughout the awkward affair; Mirra elected not to meet his eye at all. After their hands released, she snatched hers back like it were a precious thing stolen away from her. A heat crawled up the back of her neck.

Thorin made no remark on the matter and she silently thanked him for that. All he said was “The journey will likely take a year.”

“I’ve nowhere else to be.”

He nodded vaguely, giving one last look around the grove. Then the pair began marching into the brush, Thorin marching in front with Mirra following closely behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re off! Into the land of fluffy fluff (i.e. there should be much less angst from here on out) yay!!  
> 1\. Yarrow root is commonly called woundwort and it is used in poultices for cleaning wounds; 2. The similarity between death camas and wild onion is a thing; 3. Healer!Thorin was super difficult to write, I hope it turned out at least slightly in character for him.


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirra and Thorin travel to the Blue Mountains

~

_I wonder what Mother would say if she saw me at this very moment_.

Over the past three days, Bilbo had learned a great deal from the rugged old woman. Mirra had taught him the basics of tracking, showing him a tree trunk gashed by a buck’s newly grown antlers; brambles gnawed into white pulpy fibers by a hungry rabbit; and the different scat each animal left behind, as unique as a footprint. On account of his lack of hunting skill, she taught Bilbo how to make deadfall traps and peg snares. They discussed which plants were edible and which were useful for treating gashes, burns, fevers, and aches. Bilbo even offered her his own knowledge on a variety of mushrooms form his time in the Shire forests.

This morning, Bilbo found himself crafting a dozen or so arrows. “Your payment for sharing my food and fire,” Mirra declared.

After rubbing smelly deer grease over thin branches of ash, he laid them carefully lengthwise in the split ends of two branches planted in the ground. The branch-mounts held the shafts aloft like cooking spits over a crackling fire. Once they were ready, Mirra split, fletched, and corded a sharp stone tip to each shaft.

Despite the acrid smell of burning animal fat rankling his nose, Bilbo couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the thought of dear Belladonna Took’s face, and heck, all his neighbors’ faces, if they were to see him now. Here he was - having faced three trolls, countless wargscouts, thunder giants, a goblin colony, and giant spiders - in the middle of Mirkwood Forest, next to a Ranger who wasn’t, with deer grease smeared all up his forearms.

Boy, must he be the sight to see right now.

“The journey did in fact take nearly 11 moons.” Mirra continued her story as they worked. “We began in the far south of Middle Earth, nearby Gondor, and worked our way north. I made a yew bow and some makeshift arrow using the boar leg’s sinews and hoof glue. That, along with my injuries having pretty much healed, made me feel more alive. I could properly hunt and fight then; no longer was I a burden, but an equal. With the bow and sword, I probably could’ve gone my own way, but…” She grew quiet, pressing her lips together.

“But what?” Bilbo asked.

“I didn’t want to,” was the mumbled response.

Then she shrugged and the shy demeanor fell away. “The journey went peacefully. Our path rarely strayed to the woods; I did not tell Thorin that mannish villages made me uneasy, but he steered clear of them regardless. In the summer, what time we did not pass walking was spent hunting. It became a team effort; one would scare a deer or fox into a clearing while the other shoots. We developed a system of hand gestures to communicate; quieter and less risky than whispering. Pointing one finger, for example” – she demonstrated – “meant _move_. Pointing two fingers meant _aim_ or _prepare_. Three fingers, _attack._ There were more complex gestures than that, but it was mostly intuitive.

“On cooler nights, we practiced sparring. It felt awkward at first, treating swordplay as a light exercise; but whenever the intensity swelled to a nearly overwhelming level, Thorin would relax his sword and laugh, and then we’d begin again.”

“I wonder if he was as good then as he is now,” Bilbo mused.

“He mastered me the first few times – I was getting used to the blade again – but by the end, we had far more draws. It became a ritual, something to look forward to every night.

“It stopped, of course, when we came to orc country in autumn. From that point forward, very step was a step upon glass shards; every sound, however soft, was a lash upon our frazzled nerves. We hardly spoke for fear of wargscouts prowling nearby, but most nights we were too exhausted to talk anyway. The few times trouble came upon us, we used the gesture system from hunting, just applying it to different prey.”

Her eyes abruptly went wide and Mirra muttered something angrily under her breath.

“What’s the matter?” Bilbo asked, his own eyes wide with alarm.

“I spoke too harshly. Prey is an animal. You seek to kill it to use its parts. You do not seek to kill an orc or warg; it attacks, you defend yourself. It is not prey, for it is not to be hunted, just like any other race. To kill another for the sake of killing, that is wrong.”

Bilbo stared at her blankly. Mirra had reprimanded herself for speaking too harshly of _orcs_?

Mirra ignored his look and continued. “Anyhow, even when we were not under attack, the threat was always whispering in the air. Thorin showed me a form of ancient dwarvish sign language he had taught himself when he was young. His people first used it deep down in mines where tunnels could collapse if too much noise was made.

“So where it was safer, Thorin would talk while gesturing his words, and then teach me how to sign my responses. Eventually, we were able to hold conversations entirely through gestures. We talked late into the evening by the firelight without saying a word at all.”

“That’s…incredible.” Bilbo said in genuine awe. He had never heard of an unpoken language before.

Mirra nodded with a soft smile. “It was rather remarkable. The language itself is complex; if there’s a finger out of place or if the order is reversed, you can easily mean one thing yet gesture something quite different. I once tried to say ‘good night’” – she brought two left fingers to her forehead, then her mouth, then curled her fist to her left cheek – “but instead signed this” – she brought two _right_ fingers to her forehead and mouth, then curled her right fist over her chest. “That means ‘goodbye.’ Naturally Thorin was quite alarmed and I hadn’t the faintest idea why until we both realized my mistake.” She smirked wryly at the memory.

“Winter fell upon us eventually. Storms came where you could not see a foot in front of you, making travel impossible. ‘Talking’ through gestures became our primary way of passing time in the howling wind.”

“What did you talk about?”

Bilbo saw her knife stop mid-cut in the shaft she was splitting. Silence swooped down like a thousand clawing birds. Regret flushed over his face like a flame. “Sorry,” he stammered. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

“Not your fault.” Mirra resumed her cutting, but with stiffer movements. “I’ve revealed much to you, it’s only natural to ask. It’s…when you spend a year with someone on the road, it’s…different.”

Neither said a word for a while as they finished the last of the arrows. They let the murmurs of Mirkwood wash over the invisible wall between them, built of things Bilbo knew were there, but could never learn himself.

-

“I can’t say I haven’t missed having my afternoon tea back at Bag-End.” Bilbo contentedly breathed in the steams rising from the cup. “How’d you make this? I thought the river wasn’t safe.”

“Chicory root and rain-water.” Mirra picked up a small wooden bucket with a curled straw-woven mat sticking out like an upside-down cone. With deft movements and sturdy arms, she climbed one of the gnarled trees and nudged the bucket into a crevice between the mossy, knobby branches.

“Huh.” Bilbo cocked his head. “That’s quite a clever device, actually.” He looked back down at his cup with a scrutinizing eye. “I wish the Company would take the time to rest and make tea and things like that. ‘t calms the empty stomach and would make the journey much less wearisome.”

Mirra gave a vague smile, silently nodding.

They sat quietly for a while, as twilight drew over the green temple of leaf and branch overhead. Bilbo looked up worriedly at Mirra every once in a while; she had her legs stretched out while she contently sipped her tea. The tale had not been resumed since that morning. Of course, Bilbo supposed if she were really angry, he’d have no place at her fire tonight. He dare not bother the rugged woman about it; but the urge continued to nag him.

Just as Bilbo thought the effort to keep quiet might strangle him, Mirra relieved the silence for him. “Are you aware of the dwarvish customs for beards?”

Bilbo frowned. “Can’t say I do.” _Odd topic, but better than before._

“Thorin explained it to me over the journey. Beards are venerated, he said, the most fundamental badge of pride. All dwarves, male and female, grow one. In cases where a dwarf breaks a law, ‘they would sooner be executed…’ ”

~

“…than have their beard be cut,” Thorin said gravely. “To touch another dwarf’s beard is a crime that warrants serious punishment.” He looked intently at Mirra, hoping she heed his warning when they arrived in the Blue Mountains.

“I don’t understand,” Mirra replied coolly. “Your beard is braided and laced with silver. You seem proud to show off your beard.”

Thorin gave a half-smile. “A beard is one of our most prized possessions, indeed. And because of that, we are quite protective of them.”

Mirra bobbed her head slowly, conscious of her own hair for a moment. She kept the mousy brown tangles loose apart from two or three braids at the front of her head to keep the wisps of her eyes.

“Where I was raised,” she said quietly, “hair is not held so sacred. But if a child were caught stealing food, part of their hair would be cut as a mark of shame.”

Thorin merely eyed her with a hint of sadness, offering no reply. Only rarely did she mention her childhood. When he once inquired, she gave a simple reply: _I will try to respond truthfully to what you ask so long as it is not about_ that _. So please, don’t ask me again_. It was the “please” that caught his attention; there was a quiver behind it that said more than enough.

One night, sometime between the dying of winter and the initial stirrings of spring, Thorin offered to let Mirra feel his beard.

The night fell preternaturally quiet as their eyes stared solemnly into each other’s, Mirra not believing her own ears and Thorin wondering amusedly if her eyes could grow any wider.

“Are-are you sure?”

“Wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.” Thorin impatiently shifted closer to her on the log they shared. “C’mon,” he said gruffly, his tone thick with casualness about a matter Mirra thought was not casual at all. “You might as well know now before you get the urge in the Blue Mountains and cause a whole ball of trouble.”

Mirra’s brow puckered into a scowl at his suggestion that she could not control herself. Yet she could not deny it; she had been curious about what Thorin’s beard felt like.

Carefully, she shifted closer to him until they sat only half a foot apart. The night air felt unnaturally warm even as a breeze send icy chills down her back. Thorin’s watchful gaze bearing down her all the while, Mirra raised a tentative hand. It stretched forward, reaching cautiously towards his jaw.

The curls were softer than she expected; black locks rippled smoothly against her rough fingertips. Her touch was very light, but she still felt Thorin’s hard flinch upon contact. She felt the carefully coiled braids, simply yet elegantly done. The silver beads felt cold and hard compared to the gentle warmth of the bushy tangles.

 “I half-imagined there to be a nest of baby birds in here,” she said with a half-chuckle, withdrawing her hand from the folds.

The look Thorin shot Mirra nearly slapped her across the face.

For a moment, there was naught but sheer horror, a look that violently wrung Mirra’s insides. It was followed by a black thunderstorm of rage. Thorin’s eyes blazed coldly, spouting lightening bolts; his mouth twisting and contorted with fury.

“ _How dare you,_ ” he snarled in a voice so low and dangerous Mirra felt a shudder run through her knees. “ _How_ dare _you speak that way of my…after all I’ve done for…_ ” Thorin thrust himself off the log, still sputtering with rage, and stormed off into the black thickets.

Long after she could no longer hear his steps, Mirra sat rooted to the log, her mouth opening and closing in stunned silence. The hissing insects and rustling leaves only made the silence even thicker in her throat. The night suddenly felt very cold.

-

Thorin returned the following morning, but refused to speak to her. They walked in silence, ate in silence, set up camp in silence, and fell asleep without exchanging a word.

It was not until morning three days later that they exchanged their first words since the incident. “May I see your knife?” Mirra mumbled as she packed up what little possessions she had.

Thorin turned from the stew he was making and whipped an icy look at her as if she just flagrantly broken a law, the unspoken law of silence. Each silently stared the other down for a while until at last, Thorin tossed a knife at her with a grunt. He returned to his stew.

Her eyes cast to the ground, Mirra feebly nodded a thanks at his back, sprawling like a bear’s beneath the mail and boiled leather. Her right hand picked up the cold, glinting blade and gripped it tight. Her left hand reached into her hair, grasped one of the three front braids, and stretched it out in front of her. Mirra slowly raised the knife to it, resting its blade an inch from her forehead against the soft hair. Feeling the tiniest of hesitations, she scrunched up her eyes. Then her right hand snapped upwards and her head suddenly felt a bit lighter. She opened her eyes. In her left hand rested a dull brown rope of hair.

“What- whatever did you do that for!” Mirra snapped her head up to see Thorin whirled around towards her, his eyes wide with outrage and bewilderment.

“The price for my transgression,” she said evenly, a heavy air of stiffness in her words. “My remarks the evening prior were thoughtless. I did not mean offense, but I made it nonetheless, and for that I am…sorry.” With a rigid, stony hand, she presented him the braid. “This is to pay for the wrong I did you. I want to thank you for all…all the good you’ve done for me.”

Mirra was about to bring two rightfingers to her forehead and mouth to sign _goodbye_ , but a selfish urge in her compelled her to stay, to see Thorin’s reaction.

For a moment, he was quiet, revealing nothing in his expression besides being deep in thought. At last: “I accept your apology, and I too…am sorry.” Words seemed no more comfortable for him than they were for her. “I put you in an awkward position and the level of fury I unleashed on you was uncalled-for.” His head bobbed towards the pot over the fire. “There’s still stew left.”

Without another word, she nodded. Dropping her back, she stepped carefully over to the fire and sat down across from Thorin. He served her a bowl and they proceeded to eat in peaceful silence.

“Any chance I could still tou-”

“No.” Then the dwarf softened his tone. “Not for a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting caught up the Tumblr version of this so from here on out the updates will be coming much more slowly  
> Notes: for simplicity's sake (and because I don't feel like researching super obscure Tolkien linguistics because I'm a lazy butt) the dwarvish sign language Mirra learns is not precisely iglishmêk. Yes, I know the dwarvish language is not supposed to evolve, but bear with me, I'm sorry, I can make up some back story if you guys really want me to.  
> On a more general note, I realize that Thorin/OC is not a very popular ship, but I enjoy writing this story so thank you all for your kudos, it means a lot to me to get your support.


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirra and Thorin arrive at Ered Luin and meet an old friend.

From afar, the dwarven settlement was deceptively small; timber frames of houses-to-be stretched stealthily under a burgeoning layer of spring leaf. A few white tents poked up their heads like sails in the green river tucked between stretches of soaring mountain peaks. The Blue Mountains indeed held a shroud of gray-blue mist beneath the soft morning sun. As she looked upon the vale, a shiver ran up Mirra’s back; probably just from the wind. Thorin just frowned before continuing down the rocky path towards his people’s new home.

They came across three dwarf guards before the settlement, dressed in full armor, as weathered and hard as their brows. Upon seeing Mirra and Thorin approach, they promptly straightened their backs and snapped their burnished axes upright.

The middle dwarf stepped forward. “My lord Thorin,” he said with a reverent bow. “We did not expect you to come so soon. Welcome to Ered Luin.” Mirra glanced at Thorin and saw another man entirely; his chin lifted, his jaw set, his bearing nothing less than noble.

“How do the people fare?” Thorin asked, the king-to-be within him uncloaked.

 “Well enough. These are the dwarves that were sent ahead from the Dunland. His Majesty has not yet come with the rest. Not to pry, my lord, but I thought you would be arriving with them.” All effort to keep suspicion out of his tone was lost when the dwarf guard’s eyes darted at Mirra.

“I had business of my own to see to.” Thorin’s tone was iron and the dwarf guard nodded apologetically, pressing the matter no more.

Meanwhile, the two dwarves standing back threw slit-eyed looks at Mirra. Her mouth opened to ask just what they were looking at, but she stopped herself. then she realized her hand had automatically dropped to her own sword.

 _First rule, Thorin had said when they first began climbing the Blue Mountains: leave the talking to me._ So she grit her teeth and waited silently under the sharp, prickling gaze of the guards.

“…can I find Belbar?”

“The old blacksmith?” The lead guard pointed a thick finger behind him to the left. “To the southeast, about the edge. One of my guard can take you there, my lord.”

“That would be most appreciated.”

Just as one of the dwarf guards was about to lead Thorin and Mirra on into the settlement, “My lord,” called the lead sentry. “The king instructed us to build our homes out of oak.”

This confused Mirra greatly. It seemed to mean something to Thorin, however, who seemed very still all of sudden. “And?” he asked quietly.

“Ah, it’s just… is that true, my lord? Shall we use oak?”

A slight sigh escaped Thorin’s nose. “If that is the king’s wish,” he answered stiffly.

The lead sentry nodded, bowing before taking up his post again. The guard bidden to lead the pair forth frowned in impatience until Thorin turned around. Then silently they set off to meet whomever this Belbar was.

“What was the guard talking about with building homes out of oak?” whispered Mirra.

A rumble through Thorin’s throat. “Oak is a sturdy wood, used to build things that endure, to last a long time.” His fists clenched suddenly. “It does  _not_  however,” he all but spat, “last as long as stone. Stone is eternal. We may be here for a while, but this is not our true home."

 And so they set off to meet whomever this Belbar was.

The settlement was nothing so far but an array of thick wooden pillars set in the ground. Nearby each set of four was a white tent, dirty and weathered from years spent on the road.

As Mirra looked around, she couldn’t help but feel watched herself. Some turned away when she caught their glances, while others scowled outright at her like they would at a wolf prowling their village. Some glanced at Thorin with brows knitted in confusion. There was no doubt that every single dwarf there marked her, and the antipathy they silently lobbed at her pricked her like thorns and burned her throat like acrid smoke.

By reflex, Mirra’s hand dropped to the hilt of her sword. Thorin whipped his head towards her and glared.  _Second rule,_ the memory flashed in her mind:  _never wield your sword before my people. They – we – are suspicious enough as it is_. Every instinct battled her, but eventually she made her hand drop stiffly to her side.

“They are staring,” Mirra hissed.

“At what?”

“ _Me._ ”

Thorin glanced around, iron eyes peering at every face he passed. His mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

But thankfully, fewer dwarves stared so openly with the leveling gaze of Thorin upon them.

-

“Careful, careful,  _careful_  I said! That’s got my own tools in there, and a year’s worth of your salary to replace ‘em if they get smashed!”

At the southeast edge of the camp, a squat dwarf tottered to and fro between four wooden pillars embedded in the ground. His hair as red as his cheeks, he bellowed at several sour-faced dwarves lugging wooden crates as big as themselves.

“Oy!” he spluttered. “Drop that crate one more time and I’ll be sharpenin’ blades on your arm!”

“Belbar.”

The red-haired dwarf whirled around in a huff and his anger promptly melted. “Thorin, m’lad,  _shamukh_!” he boomed in happy surprise. “Good to see you!”

Thorin’s smile was not nearly so broad, but the warmth was there. “And you, my friend.”

Striding over as fast as his short little legs could, he clapped a fat hand on Thorin’s shoulder, a gesture that Thorin returned. “Last I saw you, you’re but a wee 30-year-old with barely a beard to show for it. How goes it all?” The dwarf had to look up to meet Thorin’s eye.

“It goes well. Good to be off the road. Setting up shop, I see.”

“Ah yes, yes.” Belbar turned round to face the four entrenched pillars. “Not much here yet,” he admitted. “Tricky matter, starting anew. But mark me well: when His Majesty and the rest of us come round the mountain pass in a year, we’ll be more than ready for ‘em.” He rocked his hips forward and beamed with pride. Silver hairs lined his flaming red beard. He looked nearly old enough to be Thorin’s father.

Then Belbar slyly eyed down at the hilt of Thorin’s sword. “How’s old Ansgar faring? Any rust or chips? You been oilin’ it properly?”

While Thorin reassured him that yes, he had been taking proper care of his sword, one of the dwarves working with the heavy crates sporadically shot sharp glances towards Mirra, and then to Belbar and the prince. His hand slipped something into a leather belt pouch. Then he turned with a frown and began hurriedly walking towards the blithely chatting pair.

“Oy, whatcha- _oof!_ ”

“Mahal above, what on-”

Suddenly Mirra found herself pinning the indignant dwarf worker against one of the oaken pillars, clenching his shirt in one shaking fist and hovering her blade gravely close to his throat with the other. Looking around, she saw the other workers had frozen like statues. Belbar’s jaw had unabashedly dropped, mouth spluttering in outrage. Thorin simply had his head in his hand.

“ _What in Durin’s name is this?!_ ” Belbar bellowed, brows squirming in befuddlement. His cheeks turned an angry reddish-purple.

“M-Master,” stammered the dwarf in Mirra’s fist. “I-I found the hammer you were l-looking for earlier.” Out of his leather pouch he pulled a distinctive iron mallet with a worn leather grip.

“Put him down, Mirra.” Thorin lowered his hand from his face and revealed a thunderously dark brow. Mirra reluctantly released the dwarf, who fell with a squawk and skulked away from her.

“He’s with you?” Belbar turned his rage towards Thorin. “You brought a  _man­_  with you? Into Ered Luin?”

“ _Her_  name is Mirra,” Thorin said curtly. “I owe her a debt.”

“She- you owe-  _are you out of your mind!_ ”

“Mirra, leave us.”

It was Mirra’s turn to be confused. “Wha-”

“I won’t say it again,” Thorin rumbled, tightening his fists. “Leave, before you do more damage that you already have.”

‘ _Leave’? What does he mean by ‘leave’?_  But it was no use asking him. So with a nod, off she went into the forest, hanging her head like a whipped dog.

-

“No. I’m sorry, m’lord, but I refuse.”

“I realize she made a bad impression-”

“A bad- she tried to  _knife_ one of my workers! And regardless of any impression she has made, I do not serve mannish scoundrels with my smithing and I do  _not_ let them into my home!”

Thorin kept cool despite Belbar’s outburst. “You know that men impress me less than you. But she is not like them.”

He held up a solemn hand when the red-haired dwarf tried to interject. “I would not bring an outsider here unless I was sure of her.”

Belbar merely huffed. “But why,” he grumbled, “must you bring  _me_  into settling this debt? And what makes you think that  _she_ deserves one of  _my_  swords?”

“Do you recall the deer-bringer from long ago?”

The dwarf stroked his red beard. “…It rings a few bells. Some quiet woman popped up with a full-grown buck for that one family, if memory serves me.”

“And you heard about the troll-wrangler from Azanulbizar?”

“Yes, yes, who hasn’t?” He waved his hand impatiently. “Now where are you going with this, lad?”

Thorin jerked his head vaguely towards the woods. “They are one and the same, and they are her.”

Belbar’s eyes nearly popped out their sockets. He staggered back as if struck. “ _She…that was…she_ …”

“Has also saved my life more times than I can count,” said Thorin gruffly. The prince waited patiently while the smith took a few moments to collect himself.

At last, Belbar met Thorin’s gaze. “I have known you for many winters, m’lord Thorin. You were but a wee lad when your father commissioned me for your first sword.” He let out a weary sigh; every year of his age seem to surface in the folds of his face. “It will be a long while before I am able to do any proper smithing.”

The prince’s mouth softened. “She’s willing to earn her keep.”

“And there’s no telling how Belga will react,” added Belbar, giving Thorin a look.

“Understood.”

The smith began rubbing his temples in little circles, muttering under his breath something about ‘tricky matters’. He looked off into the murky green expanse of trees that lay before the foot of the mountaintops. “I wonder if she left for good, though.”

“She’ll come back.”

“Don’t you seem rather sure.”

Thorin’s lips twitched into a wry smirk. “She has a knack for coming back.”

Over the tall majestic peaks, a lazy orange sun peered down upon the valley, its light ebbing and swelling beneath a rhythmic flow of rolling gray clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d imagine Mirra after living several years in the wild would look a bit like Aragorn. But kind of ironic for Belbar to comment that when he’s from a culture where the women look quite similar to the men.
> 
> Shamukh means hail in Khuzdul. Ansgar is an ancient Germanic name that I gave to Thorin’s sword since I couldn’t find its actual name. For future reference, Ered Luin is the Sindarin name for the Blue Mountains, and Thorin’s Halls is the name of the city where the Erebor refugees live.


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirra meets the perfectly lovely and normal family she's boarding with.

His wife took it as well as she could, Belbar supposed as he sheepishly ducked another wooden spoon hurled at his head.

“ARE. YOU.  _MAD?!_ ” A series of flying forks accentuated each bellow. “HAVE YA’ LOST YOUR  _MIND?!_ ”

Before him stood a short, stout dwarvish woman literally quaking with red-hot fury. The vibrant purple-red of her cheeks shone bright against her gray, threadbare frocks and salt-and-pepper hair. Her red mouth had not closed for the past half-hour as she roared ceaselessly at him. Belbar merely stood there quietly, weathering the blows like a willow tree in a hurricane, just riding out the storm.

“Belga, dear, please-”

“DON’CHA ‘BELGA DEAR’ ME” – lobbing a fork that he danced out of the way of – “NOT AFTER YA AGREED T’ LET A MANNISH  _TRAMP_  INTA’ OUR  _HOME_!”

He wondered whether or not the earth itself would shake if she were just a bit louder. “Please, try to understand-”

“DIDJA THINK ON IT FOR A QUARTER O’ A SECOND, OR MAYBE EVEN A HALF BEFORE YER OAFISH MOUTH SAID YES!”

“ _Mahal_  above, must the entire valley know-”

“LET ‘EM HEAR ME! LET ‘EM HEAR ALL ABOUT MAH USELESS OAF OF A HUSBAND WHO’S HALF DE BRAINS OF AN ORC-!”

“BELGA!” thundered Belbar as the last of his patience wore away. Her left hand now wielded a black frying pan, but she begrudgingly lowered it upon his outburst. “ _Do_  not _do this,_ ” he growled through gritted teeth.“ _Not in front of the children._ ”

“Oh fret not, they’re out playin’ with Dufur’s children,” she snarled back. “’Cause one o’ us always got t’ be the  _responsible_ one. They mi’ find themselves without a father when comin’ home though.” Her eyes hurled flaming daggers at his face.

The weaponsmith let out a weary sigh.  _So long as there’s not an actual knife to back up her threats.._. “She’s not a tramp and it won’ a permanent arrangement. Just a year or two until I make her a sword and then-”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse if she’s the Queen of Gondor and jus’ stayin’ the afternoon-”

“But think of the honor in fulfilling a favor for the king’s son-”

“Over my col’ dead body am I welcomin’ any Men to my fir- did you say ‘the king’s son’?”

He gave her a solemn nod.

The snarl evaporated from her face. Her astonished eyes showed that she finally grasped the gravity of the situation. Two glimmering coals of eyes then settled upon the grass, perhaps trying to set it aflame. During the calm of the storm, Belbar took a wary step fowards. “I hope ya’ understand this now. He asked me as a favor to help settle his debt to her. If I’d refused-”

“He could’ve just as easily ordered you, ah knows, ah know.” She rubbed a weathered, wrinkled hand over her face. “Makin’ ya’ settle his own debts, tch!” A glob of spit shot from her mouth into the grass. “I ‘ave my own choice words for him for giving you no choice in the matter.”

“ _Belga!_ ” The blood ran out of Belbar’s dumbstruck face. He whirled to make sure none could hear what she was saying. The last thing he needed was Belga beheaded for slander.

“There’ll be no tongues bitten back when it comes t’ the safety of my family,” she declared, sticking up her chin and glaring fiercely at her husband. The frying pan in her hand could’ve been a battle-axe at that moment.

Then her shoulder drooped and she let out a sullen sigh. Her eyes no longer sparked with fury, but simply twitched with irritation and sagged from a weariness he suspected had entrenched itself permanently in her bones. “’S only temporary?”

A short nod. “Only for a few short years.”

“As soon as all’s settled, she’ll be gone?”

“She won’ stay an hour longer, I swear it on my own beard.”

Her brow puckered, deep in thought; Belbar held his breath. Ultimately, with a “hmph!” she turned to the fire and began fussing over a stew murmuring and hissing in a wrought iron pot. Belbar felt himself nearly fall over in relifef. Of course, her silent resignation did not necessarily mean peace; but it did not mean war either.  _Not war it is_ ; Belbar could settle for that.

The silverware glinted in the dry grass; he leaned over with not a few groans to recover the most recent casualties of his tempest of a wife. A small metal spoon caught his attention and he fingered it in one of his leathery hands. It belonged to his grandfather; even beneath the travel stains and wears of time, it still bore a noble shine. Gazing at the spoon and looking up upon the green valley, Belbar saw the skeletons of houses-to-be, the first true homes (built of sturdy oak, built to last) that Durin’s Folk will have had in far too long. Today the dwarves still ached with the weariness of wandering and losses from long ago, but in a few years, when the settlement was built and normalcy restored, he firmly believed that they would shine once more; for dwarves were as strong and sturdy as the rock from which they came.

If they could survive dragon fire and an exodus across the entirety of Middle Earth, housing a strange Mannish woman for a few years would not be so hard.

Belbar looked back as his wife, frowning and muttering at the stew as if it were an insolent child and let out a long, contented sigh.  _We will endure._   _Menu zirup men_ ,  _my dear._

-

It was twilight when the dark-browed prince returned. Alongside him strode the woman from the woods, her face stony and her head hunched. Belbar welcomed Thorin to his “home” – nothing more than a make-shift firepit and a shabby linen tent spilling over with their possessions – giving the prince a bob of his head and a polite grin.

“You’re just in time for dinner,” said Belbar heartily, clapping his hand on Thorin’s back as if he were his own kin.

Belga too managed a tightlipped smile as she curtsied. However, the look she shot at the silent woman could’ve reduced lesser beings into a pile of ash. Then her flames turned on Belbar. He winced before she even spoke. “ _Ya’ forgot to mention you invited him t’ dinner_ ,” she hissed in his ear. His mouth opened and closed, but all he could muster was a feeble shrug.

Before her tongue could lash him any further, there came a clamor of rambunctious shouts. Out of the bushes leapt three cackling boys, scrambling on gangly legs towards the campsite. The tallest boy led the charge, his shock of curly red hair bouncing on his pink cheeks. Behind him ran a darker-haired boy, braying just as loud as the red-headed boy; and bringing up the rear was the smallest of them, his brown hair shiny and clumped with sweat as he focused more on huffing than laughing.

“C’mon Halnar, keep up!” cried the red-headed boy. The brown-haired boy looked up. His ragged breaths didn’t allow him to respond.

“Naldar, Valdar, Halnar, come for supper!”  _Thwack thwack thwack_ went Belga’s wooden spoon against the pot of stew. One, two, then three boys plopped down by the pot of stew, awaiting their respective bowlfuls with great eagerness.

“Sorry we’re late, Bombur’s Ma makes the  _best_ seed cakes I’ve ever ‘ad!”

“Halnar nearly wet his pants again when Bofur told us the story about Yoric getting stuck in the mines.”

“Did not! I was merely…concerned about Yoric’s wellbeing, ya’ know?”

“Especially after he gets skinned by goblins, eh?”

Halnar gave a small shriek before he clapped his hand over his mouth.

“’Ey be nice to your brother. He’s de youngest and you shou’ take of him. And don’t ever lemme catch you boys going down in the mines, or I’ll skin you myself.” A brandished spoon underscored her threat. The three boys sobered up immediately and nodded gravely with big brown eyes.

“Erm, Halnar, Naldar, Valdar,” said the weaponsmith with a nervous smile. “A-Allow me to introduce Prince Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror.”

The two oldest dwarflings lifted their heads and widened their eyes in awe. the tall, dark dwarf standing nobly above them. Their heads bobbed awkwardly in respect. The youngest dwarfling bit at his thumb absentmindedly, until he caught what his older brothers were doing and clumsily followed their example.

“And this is…Mirra.” The hitch in his voice made no sense to her, but she said nothing of it. “I’ve been charged with making her a sword,” the weaponsmith explained. “She’ll be workin’ and boardin’ with us in the interim.”

The red-haired youth knitted his eyebrows and pointed a chubby finger at Mirra. “Isn’t she a – ow!” The boy squawked as his red-faced father slapped the finger down. Belbar angrily muttered something under his breath about “not a word about it Valdar.”

Belga meanwhile ladled, or rather, with the vigor she put into each flourish, slapped a portion of stew into six mottled bowls. The oldest dwarf boy he looked at her with puzzled brows about the not so subtle forcefulness with which she thrust each bowl into his hands to pass around, but ultimately said nothing to her.

When the dwarfling raised a tentative bowl to Thorin, the dwarf prince shook his head and held up his hand. “I cannot stay for dinner, unfortunately; thank you for the invitation.”

Belbar nodded, a bit more disappointed than his wife, who shot venemous looks at Mirra whenever she thought Thorin wasn’t looking. Thorin, until his father arrived, would be acting leader of the settlement in Ered Luin; his duties apparently seemed to start the moment his foot stepped in the valley. Mirra, realizing all of a sudden that their paths would not cross all that often from now on, wondered when she would see him next. But surely the twinge in her chest was nothing more than her body crying for sustenance, even if it was a mealy potato stew.

“…Speaking of such matter” - Mirra, abruptly whipped back to the conversation, had not a clue what ‘matters’ were spoken of - “I’m still not so sure our boys should be runnin’ around with those sons of Dufur,”. The weaponsmith tried to subtly puff out his chest and lift his chin in an air of forced pride.

“What on ear- I mean, how do you mean, m’dear?” Belga oiled her tone, flashing a smile that wasn’t at her husband.

“Well,” the weaponsmith said with a sniff, “I only mean that maybe they shouldn’ be mixing with miner folk as boys of the line of Telchar-”

 “Oh merciful heav’ns, here he goes-”

 “Oh  _Mahal_ , Pa, you’re gonna embarra-”

“Oy! You watch your language boy! Tha’s no way for a lad of your noble ancestry to speak-”

“Oh don’ they know their heritage all right, ya only blather on about it once a week-”

“-should be proud to be descended from the legendary dwarf of Nogrod who forged the swords o’ kings-”

“Spare me, gods, he’ll suck up all the air and leave none for the rest o’ us-”

“- the sword of Elendil that destroyed the second Dark Lord on the plains of ‘is own ‘ome-”

“-Mahal ‘ear my prayers, gag him at once or ah’ll surely perish from boredom.”

In the midst of the clamor rose a rough ahem. The entire family turned and both father and mother turned red as tomatoes at Thorin’s steely demeanor. Then all became aware of a series of coughing sounds that burst into a trickle of …laughter. Mirra, much to the dismay of the weaponsmith, the fury of his wife, the curiosity of the three dwarflings, and the stupification of Thorin, was  _laughing_.

Belga and Belbar flicked their eyes pointedly at Thorin, hoping he would say something to her about the utter rudeness she was expressing. But Mirra’s laughter had rendered him absolutely speechless. He had never heard her laugh before, and based on the helpless look in her own eyes, she was just as much bewildered as he.

-

Overall, however, handing Mirra off to Belbar’s family went rather smoothly. Before leaving them, Thorin gave a respectful nod to his hosts and his old friend. He leaned close to Mirra and muttered under his breath, “Treat them as extensions of myself.”

She nodded slowly, the meaning of his words sifting into her mind. Despite Mirra’s deep discomfort and well, ignorance in dealing with strangers, these dwarves were to be respected. They were doing her a kindness, he had informed her earlier, to house her with them while they barely had a house themselves; and although they may not trust her, she had to trust in them. _They are honorable_ , he had said,  _and will keep their word to me_.

 _You seem to place a great deal of value upon words,_ she commented wryly.

Thorin was unamused.  _A dwarf is only as good as his word_.  _It is all he has now since there is no more wealth to be had by our people._  His tone had dripped with acid and Mirrahad made no further comment.

She had been so lost in her own thoughts that Thorin suddenly left without her notice. The realization jolted her, but the twinge she felt in her stomach she attributed to hunger. And so silently she spooned the thin potato stew into her mouth. Her eyes did not rise from her bowl to meet the gazes of her fellow diners. The night enveloped them in a uncomfortable thick silence.

“Ma, can I ‘ave some more?” asked the youngest dwarf – Halnar – with big, glossy eyes

“Absolutely not.” Her iron tone struck like a switch on the young, bemused Halnar. Belbar and the two older brothers did not even lift their heads from their stew to defend the young dwarfling. “You’ve ‘ad three bowls already, that’s mo’ than enough.”

“But Maa,” he whined. “I’m sta-a-a-rvin’!”

“Oh hush yourself, don’t exaggerate.”

“But I a-a-a-m-m.  _Ple-e-a-s-e._ ”

“You’re not starving.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, five sets of shocked eyes snapped onto Mirra. She did not know who seemed more aghast, Halnar at the doubt that he was in reality starving or Belga at the fact that Mirra would dare speak to her child.

But no pink rose in Mirra’s cheeks and her mouth held firm with resolve.

_“Please…” It could’ve been the wind, his voice was so thin. Mirra was twelve and the boy lying on the ground held out a shaking bone of an arm. There were bones protruding all over beneath thin pallid skin He was barely strong enough to speak. He no longer cried at the pain in his gangly foot, although the wound was not healing. One of the masters paced nearby, dangling a willow switch far too casually by his side. After the master passed them, the boy turned to her again; two mournful gray eyes overwhelmed a withered face._

_The bread she held was stale and barely enough for one. She’d stolen it while the cook looked the other way; that’s the only way you could eat, the only way you could survive._

_She lived her life by rules. They ground themselves into her bones, branded themselves into her muscles; but above them all ruled one fundamental law that_ was _her bones, her muscles, her very being._

 _It slipped into her ear, no more than a murmur._ Survive _, it hissed._ You. Must. Survive _. And he would not._

_She was stone when she put her back on him. His silence was a blunt knife shredding her ears, which were stone as well. She was stone when she turned on her heel, leaving him shaking in soft, sickly sobs._

_And she was stone when the boy was buried three days later._

“You will not starve,” she repeated gruffly. The boy looked up at her, widened his eyes, then quickly cast his face downwards again. Was she really so frightening?

“’Ow now, who do you think you are, tellin’ my sons they’re this an’ that?” snapped a fiery-eyed Belga. “What do  _you_ know of what they’ve gone through? What do  _you_  know of the suffering’s we’ve endured; raisin’ a family in homelessness, dressed in rags, spit on by e’ery menfolk that passes by because they think they’re better than us?”

Mirra gulped, her nerves tingling and bristling as she struggled over how to respond.  _No need for a sword. Do not touch your sword. Don’t even think about it._

Belbar waved his hands weakly with a nervous chuckle. “Now now, Belga, I’m sure she didn’ mean-”

“Oh, you’re sure, eh?” she spat back, cowering the weaponsmith into silence. “Now listen here.” She poked a meaty finger into Mirra’s stomach, and Mirra was too dumbstruck to fight her off. “Thorin may have invited you here and he may think you proper, but  _I’m_ your host and you stink o’ trouble from a league away.”

_Remember what Thorin said; they will not harm you. You must trust them not to harm you. Do not reach for your sword. Do not reach for your sword._

“So let’s get a few things straight.” She lobbed her words at Mirra like iron barbs.” I don’ like you, I don’ trust you, but I’ve no choice but t’ let you stay.  _While_ you stay, you goin’ to be getting’ your own meals, you goin’ to be workin’ for your keep, and you goin’ to fix that smart mouth of yours. Understood?”

There was a tense minute as the Belga petulantly waited for a response. Mirra meanwhile felt her frame wavering, her thoughts completely swept away by the torrent unleashed by the ferocious dwarf woman. After a long silence, she felt her head automatically nod up and down.

“Good,” replied Belga curtly, her glare unrelenting. “Now take tha’ bowl and put in the pot with the soap. You’ll be washin’ tonight.”

“Belga-”

“And’not another word from you either!” The seething dwarf woman whirled around and hurled daggers at her suddenly timorous husband. “Thorin says she’s here to work. Well, here’s work for ‘er to do.” Suddenly his bowl was swiped from his hands, as were all the boys’, their contents dumped and thrust into the hands of one very baffled Mirra. “’ere. I assume tha’ despite your comin’ from Mahal knows where, you know how to wash.”

Mirra’s eyes lowered down at the dishes in her hands. She blinked, turning them over slowly in her hands as if they were artifacts from another planet.

“Oh in the name of Durin,  _‘ere!_ ”  _Splash_  went the dishes in a separate tub from the stew pot, filled with cold water and silky suds. “Now you take a cloth” – slapping a threadbare rag into Mirra’s hand, which curled dumbly around it after a moment – “an’ you wipe all the dishes until there isn’ a speck or crumb on ‘em. Ya think you can handle that much?”

A slow awkward nod from Mirra.

“Good, tha’s a good start.”

A start to what looked like a very long few years.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hokay, fuckton of notes here:  
> 1\. Writing out the character of Belga was as painful and hilarious as Belga herself. Also, Mirra cannot social and it’s adorable.  
> 2\. Yorick is the name of the man whose skull Hamlet holds while he goes on an existential monologue 300 years before existentialism becomes a thing. All allegories and inspiration like this will be cited because plagiarism is bad.  
> 3\. Belbar is an OC, but I realized while writing that his name shared the same suffix as Telchar, whose character is canon and was famous for forging Narsil. So voila, a thing.  
> 4\. Menu zirup men is Khuzdul for “You complete me”. The actual Khuzdul phrase for “I love you” is long and clunky and I figured dwarves are more apt to say something shorter.  
> 5\. These are the dwarfiest characters I’ve ever written, which I hope makes up for my bastardized portrayal of Thorin
> 
> This has now finally caught up with the Tumblr version of this story. The next chapter will take some time, so I apologize for that ahead of time. In the meantime, comments and critiques are totally welcomed!


	16. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Dear all my readers, I am so so so so so sorry that this took for-freakin-ever to produce. Literally everything happened to me within the last few months, but that still is no good excuse and I’m sorry. You all deserve enormous credit for putting up with me and with the wait. I truly love you all and want to thank you for all the support you guys have given throughout this. I seriously could not have done it without you. Bless all your souls and may a thousand cupcakes cross paths with you in the future.

 

Mirra found herself spending most of her time with none other than the woman who disliked her most.

“Oy! Ye boardin’ ‘ere, ye workin’ ‘ere!”

Every morning, she woke at the crack of dawn with the dwarf mother to prepare a simple breakfast stew. After all had eaten, Belbar silently went up to work on the house, later joined by his assistants and Naldar, the oldest of the dwarflings. Valnar and Halnar ran off to play, Valdar sprinting ahead and Halnar dawdling behind. Meanwhile, Belga dragged Mirra to the nearby brook where they washed the family’s clothes using homemade soap.

“Oy! Do’s that look e’en _remotely_ clean to you?”

When the wash was finished and set to dry back at camp, they set out into the forest with two baskets and collected roots. Mirra once suggested that she set a trap for badgers and rabbits. That way, they could have meat one night.

“Notta chance,” snapped Belga. “No meat caught by menfolk is goin’ in my children’s mouths, ye hear?”

Next came the stitching. It was a task that had no end, for if Belga wasn’t mending old trousers and tunics, she was sewing new ones for her ‘growin’ boys’.

 “’ave you a though in yer ‘ead, girl?” Belga liked to ask. “Ye do a backstitch for repairing wool, a slipstitch’ll do nothin’ but  fall apart. Bloody miracle ye ‘aven’t found yerself suddenly naked in the street, yer sewing’s so rotten.”

Thankfully, Belga missed the scorching look Mirra threw at her back. The blood that would have been spilt would be quite hard to get out of the laundry.

-

“Why?”

“Because…” Belbar chewed on his lip. One month had passed since Mirra’s arrival and if anything, the stares of other dwarves had only grown frostier. Some let their jaws drop openly. Others scowled for as long as she was in their sight. Most flicked their eyes away, pretending Mirra was invisible. But when her back was turned, they made sure to throw at least one withering glare at her. Belbar was afraid that they did the same to him when he wasn’t looking.

Mirra knelt on the ground before a stump, whittling a knife using the leg bone of a deer and a smooth rock. She did not meet his gaze as he spoke

“Because we, as a people, don’t trust easy,” were the words he decided on. “And you walking around with all your arrows and your sword…It puts us on edge, you see.”

 _Thwack._ Mirra smashed the rock against the bone. The crack made Belbar’s knee wobble.

“There’s not a soul in this valley who trusts ye with his worst enemy,” he declared feebly. Your weapons are only makin’ it worse.”

Her eyes fixed on her hands, she began to scrape the stone against a splintered piece of bone, sharpening it into a pointed edge. _Scrape_. _Scrape_.

“We dwarves may have our faults, stubbornness among them…”

_Scrape. Scrape._

“But we’ve faced some hard times at the supposedly hospitable hand of others. We don’t trust many outside our own, and for good reason…”

 _Scrape. Scrape_.

“Why?” she asked. She still wouldn’t meet his gaze.

His teeth ground together. He didn’t want to be questioned. He didn’t want this to be difficult. “ _Because…_ ”No good answer came to mind, but by the blade of his axe was he going to admit that.

He ended stalking away in a huff, muttering under his breath. Mirra all the while scraped at the bone knife’s edge. She did not smile in victory.

-

When midday had almost arrived, the flour-making began. Belga used mostly acorns, but also mixed in a small amount of wheat that she kept in a small leather pouch. “Found this fer a pretty penny down near Bree. Went for twice what it was worth, but I ‘aggled it down…” Wheat was precious as it turned out; the dwarves had little experience in farming and as the settlement was in its infant stages, whatever plots had been tilled were not ready for harvest.

The dwarfmother used the flour for the midday meal, a gruel that no matter how lumpy or burnt it turned out, it was only considered decent if Belga made it. “Gritty,” she would say of Mirra’s attempt, her nose and lips curling in disgust. “Ye overboiled it.” The next day: “Watery. Underboiled.” Another day: “Why dontch’ye just serve ‘em a pot o’ piss an’ save yerself the effort?”

What nearly made up for the infuriating process was that Belga went back on her original word that Mirra was to make her own meals. For the dwarf mother always made sure to shove a bowl of gruel into her hands, just so Mirra understood how it _should_ taste.

-

“What’cha doin?”

Mirra froze. One of the rules was to never go near the children. And the storm in Belga’s eyes as she declared that rule told Mirra that that law would be upheld on pain of death. But what could Mirra do if one came near her?

“Trapping,” was her terse reply to the small voice behind her back. Slowly and deliberately, she turned and found a small, brown-haired dwarfling behind her, his eyes downcast and his feet idly kicking the leaves.

“I’m not afraid of you,” mumbled the boy.

Something kept Mirra from pointing out the obvious lie.

So the dwarfling – Halnar was his name – stood there, rocking back and forth on his feet. He wriggled and picked at his fingers with no apparent purpose. His eyes darted everywhere but at her. He had no idea what to do next. But frankly, neither did Mirra.

“Wh-what’s that?” He pointed a trembling finger just above her shoulder. She realized he was looking at the long wooden shaft nestled on her back.

“This? It’s called a bow.” She pulled it out and displayed it to the boy. His eyes just about popped out of his head. He drank in every curve, every bit of polish, every slender inch of the bow.

“It-it’s beautiful.”

“It’s useful.” He jumped at her terseness and Mirra tasted a bit of sour regret on her tongue. _But why? Where did that regret come from? Why do I feel bad?_

“W-What do you-?”

“Use it for?” She twirled it upright, all six feet of the yew longbow, as though it were a simple twig. The dwarfling stepped back reflexively, his eyes growing wider with every passing moment. “You use it to hunt,” she explained. “Or to kill.”

Halnar went pale. “I don’t like killing.” He crinkled his face and shook his head. “I don’t like killing,” he repeated in a whisper.

“Neither do I,” replied Mirra calmly, throwing the bow back over her shoulder. “I do it because it is necessary.”

“Why’s it necessary?”

“Well…”

Had she ever really thought about this? No, it had always been something she accepted. Like life and death, like earth and sky, killing just _was_.

“…it is,” she answered dumbly. Then she abruptly turned on her heel. “I must set traps. Go away.”

She waited stockstill as the trampling of brush drew farther and farther away. She waited until Halnar was surely long gone and silence returned to the glen. As Mirra resumed her work, hr mind did a poor job of not thinking about the strange encounter.

-

“I got all this for a pretty penny down at a market in somethin’ called Farthing or other,” the dwarf mother explained with a proud smile. “Uncleaned, uncombed, good sturdy wool just sittin’ there because no one would bother to do the work themselves. Five bags, all for just the buckle ‘round my waist.”

That prompted an unusually large bang from Belbar’s hammer. Mirra later learned that the buckle was a wedding gift from him to his wife, and a source of resentment between the two. “I put it t’ good use,” was all Belga would say on the matter.

Turning to Mirra, the dwarf mother jabbed a finger at a small block covered by gray muslin. “Pass me that.”

Mirra expected no please. Beneath the cloth lay a misshapen, sickly-beige brick of something soft and waxy. Belga snatched it from her hands and using a blunt kitchen knife, shaved off flakes from the block into the basin of wool. The water began to foam.

“’Ere.” Mirra found the block slapped back into her hands. “Cut yerself a chunk an’ use it to wash the man-stink off ye, it’s makin’ me gag.”

It took her a moment to realize that Belga was not kidding, at which time the dwarf mother snapped her head up and rolled her eyes. “It’s called soap if ye don’t know.”

“I know what soap is.” Mirra did not bother to keep the growl out of her tone.

“Then why ye’s still standin’ there?” The stout woman returned her piercing gaze to the steaming basin. Her nose wrinkled with displeasure to see that there were black flecks in the wool.

“I’ve used soap before,” grumbled Mirra.

“Coulda fool’d me.” Belga didn’t even lift her eyes.

The pink and yellow streaks of sunset grew broader in the sky as Mirra stalked off into the woods most certainly _not_ in a huff. Neither Belga nor any other dwarf had a right to comment about hygiene in her opinion. But she decided perhaps that was best left unsaid.

-

When night fell, Mirra set her blanket a good ten paces away from the rest of the family. Belga did not trust her around her children while all slept, and Mirra made no effort to convince her otherwise.

When Belga was sure that Mirra was asleep, the dwarf mother finally nodded off herself. Then, Mirra would open her eyes and look upon the black veil that consumed the valley. Nighttime was one of the few times when all was truly quiet. No hammering, no clatter of planks, no hissing pots, no bellowing dwarves. During the day, Mirra sucked in all the clamor and frustration until her insides boiled, only to feel it all melt away into the peace of the night.

One light did flicker on the black-blue expanse; a lonely fire flickering outside the largest tent in the settlement, with some sort of blue coat of arms emblazoned on the canvas. Societies tend to give the largest dwellings to their rulers, she knew. An imaginary scene swam before her eyes: the iron-eyed man sitting before a fire, a pipe in his mouth and a frown upon his lips as he watched the flames lick the oaken logs until they shriveled black. They had not crossed paths for months now, but every feature was as clear as moonlight in her mind.

The vision always brought sleep upon her more quickly. She could never figure out why.

 -

“Ma! Ma! Can I get-”

“No.” Belga rubbed a hand over her tired face. “An’ don’t go askin’ Mirra either.”

Six months had passed. The house had been completed nearly a month ago, just in time as the leaves burst into color and the wind began to nip, and Belbar was hard at work to finish his smithy before winter arrived. The children had overcome their initial uncertainty of Mirra. They now begged her regularly to show off her archery skills, a request she frequently denied but once in a while out of sheer weariness she complied with. Belga still scowled and scorned her presence, but she now called Mirra by name. That was an improvement over ‘girl’ and ‘useless sack o’ orc shit’.

Today happened to be the first day of market, apparently a Very Important Event. Belga had woken them all up before dawn and spent what felt like hours fussing over her sons’ clothes and hair so they looked like ‘respectable young dwarves, for goodness’ sake’. Then she began fussing over her own. She had even washed herself and redone her braids for the occasion, both of which Mirra now knew were rarely done in dwarven society.

“Why don’ we braid Mirra’s ‘air?” Halnar had asked innocently.

“Because she’s no dwarf,” the ever-pragmatic Belga had snapped.

Belga had been weaving like a madwoman in preparation for today. All the wool she and Mirra had cleaned and combed and dipped and dyed, the dwarf mother transformed into brilliant, sumptuous blankets and cloaks. Three of those cloaks she placed on her son’s shoulders to parade for the rest of the settlement. The rest, she thrust in Mirra’s arms to hold as they went off to market. Mirra was torn between annoyance at being used as a pack pony and flattery at the subtle show of trust.

Market was already bustling by the time they arrived. Dozens of burnished, well-crafted carts lined the open square like a maze; each carried a horde of items ranging from bread to brass brooches, from pots to pigs. Shouts rang across the square, advertising wares and goods. Hordes of dwarves chattered and giggled as they perused the goods. The only part not teeming with carts or people in the square was a small white tent under which a band of four dwarf men played a lively tune. Some of the younger dwarves even began jumping and spinning and stamping their feet to the music. Dancing, Mirra once heard it called. The dwarves were dancing.

Thankfully, even Mirra’s presence couldn’t dampen the mood among the joyful folk. Only half the passerbys gave the usual withering glares, but for the most part they simply ignored her.

Mirra overheard bits throughout the morning as she followed Belga from stand to stand.

 “…damned good day to get out o’ the mines fer once, Mahal bless it.”

“Aye, I’ll toast t’ that. Speak o’ which, where’s the blastin’ ale…?”

 “…Oh it’s hardly treason if e’ryone else is sayin’ it too. Nearly seventy an’ the prince ‘asn’ got a wife yet? How’s ‘e expectin t’ continue the line…?”

“…business as usual. We’re not home yet, but it’s a return to business as usual and that is good…”

“…the king’s expected t’ come in three months time, ye know. The court’s gonna throw some sort of games in ‘is honor, but ye didn’ ‘ear nuthin’ from me, ye know…”

“…all I’m askin’ for is a fair price for ‘onest work, is all I’m askin’. Finest wool in the West, ye see here.” That voice belonged to none other than the dwarf mother. Her left hand clutched one of her blankets her right hand gestured vigorously at the poor, bewildered shopkeeper before her. “Ye know what it’s proper worth…”

“’Ey,” piped Naldar suddenly. “Where’s Halnar gone?”

His mother whirled around. Sure enough, only two of her sons were there. Her eyes went round and her face grew pale

“Halnar!” barked Belga. She shoved by Mirra, nearly toppling over the pile of blankets, but she took no notice. “Halnar! Where ye gone?” There was a tremor that Mirra had never heard before.

“Halnar!” called the boys in singsong tones, skipping in and out of the crowd. “Oy, Halnar!”

“Halnar!” The dwarf mother had gone as white as a sheet. Her body began to shake as she called and called ever more frantically. Fear, as Mirra had never seen it before, had completely seized the dwarf mother.

A muffled squeak within the clamor, and a flash of ash-brown hair. Mirra all but dropped the blankets. The crowd jostled and shoved against her like rocks in a current, snapping at her as she worked her way through. She paid them no mind. The tuft danced before her, dipping in and out of sight, like the tail of a deer and now she was on the hunt.

The tuft ducked around behind a wattle-and-daub wall. She followed it, and stumbled upon a emptier path leading away from market. Up ahead, a child with ash-brown hair was being tugged briskly by a dark-cloaked dwarf.

“Halnar.” There was no question even before the child turned its head, revealing a quivering Halnar. The dwarf man gave a sharp tug on Halnar’s arm. A yelp of pain escaped the dwarfling. His captor’s hand rose up the strike the boy when his beady eyes caught sight of Mirra. His face twisted with horror before settling on a cold sneer. “Get on wit’ yerself, mannish,” he growled. “Nuthin’ for you t’ see ‘ere.”

Mirra’s face was emotionless, her eyes dead like stone as they fixed themselves upon the dwarf. _Never draw your weapon against a dwarf_ , Thorin once said. It rang like a long lost echo in her memory. All she could see was the terrified boy struggling before her.

“I’m warnin’ ye, _shirumund_!” cried the dwarf. He clutched the boy with increasingly shaking hands as Mirra walked closer. “Don’ mess wit’ what ye don’ understand!”

Blood rushed like a familiar waterfall in Mirra’s ears. Her muscles bristled and tensed beneath her skin. Her body, like a machine, was readying itself for the inevitable.

“I _said_ ” – in a cold flash, the dwarf whipped out a knife – “ _get back!_ ”

Little did he know that was all Mirra was waiting for. Before he understood what was happening, Mirra had lunged forth like a panther, seizing his knife arm and slamming it against her knee. As he roared in pain, his grip on Halnar loosened. She ripped the dwarfing from his arms and sent the boy almost flying into the dirt. The dwarf grabbed her shirt, hoisting his knife overheard, but too late, her palm already smashed into his jaw. Blood and spit splattered on her cloak. The dwarf stumbled back and the knife dropped to the ground with a clatter. Mirra meanwhile lost no time. She snatched the dazed dwarf’s arm with both hands and in one swift turn and tumble, _thoomp!_ The would-be captor landed flat on his back. A long raspy groan was all that escaped his mangled lips.

Over him loomed Mirra, her knees planted squarely on his shoulders. Against his neck laid the blade of his own knife. It hovered a hair’s width above his pale, glistening throat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> 1\. Apologies for shitty accents
> 
> 2\. Apologies for the lack of Thorin
> 
> 3\. Apologies that this is still as long and tedious as hell
> 
> 4\. Sorry for everything, actually
> 
> 5\. except the ending, because eXCUSE YOU FUCKTRUCKS DON’T YOU DARE MESS WITH DEM PRECIOUS DWARF BABIES
> 
> 6\. I tried to make almost every part of this important, so keep a lookout if you’re a careful reader.
> 
> 7\. shirumund is bastardized Khuzdul for ‘beardless’, which as you can imagine is a pretty big insult among dwarves.


	17. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: violence, emotional flashback, Thorin makes one hell of a return
> 
> Also, I get a few questions about this, but I do make sure to research the hell out of everything, particularly in the most recent chapters. So technically I’ve given y’all instructions on how to make a bone knife, how to treat wounds, the difference between wild onion and death camas, etc., Just don’t hold me liable if you use it and it doesn’t work or you explode or something idk.

Blood billowed in waves in her ears. Every breath came hot and ragged, and every nerve cracked like fire. Perhaps only seconds had passed, but she lived every second thoroughly, raking her insides and gutting her clean with each passing.

Oh, how long it’d been since she’d felt this rush. How long it’d been since she’d felt so _alive_!

The dwarf squirmed, a worm trapped by her finger. Blood mixed with spittle and dribbled on to his beard. He alternated between snarls and fearful gulps of air, which sent his throat convulsing like the heart of a trapped rabbit. A hair’s width above hovered the knife blade.

How easily his throat would split. How easily the blood would ripple forth. Just a flick of her wrist and the dwarf would die like a slaughtered pig by his own knife.

 _Yes,_ something within her hissed. _Kill him. It is right. Take his life. Quick. No mercy…._

The dwarf spat in her face, trying to prove he had some courage left. She watched the bravado crumble the closer she brought the blade to his neck until it ever so delicately pressed against his skin. Not enough to pierce it, but enough to make a small furrow on the slick skin. His throat throbbed frantically. His eyes bulged in panic. If she wasn’t careful, he’d cut his own throat on the knife.

 Just one flick and he would gurgle and rasp for about ten seconds and then never make another sound.

_Kill him._

_Kill. Kill now._

_Kill. Kill. Kill-!_

A whimper. Mirra snapped her head up. A pace or two away stood Halnar with arms wrapped around himself. His skin was as white as a corpse’s. His gaze flickered to the knife, the dwarf sprawled on the ground, and finally settled on her. Somehow his face drained further of color. Fear had consumed the dwarfling entirely.

Fear, it hit her all at once, of Mirra

_She was seven. The man lay sprawled on the ground. His arms and legs were pinned down by two masters. His struggled breaths filled the still glen. All watched without so much as a breath.  The elder, his red robes fluttering lazily in the breeze, walked slowly and methodically like a shade. In his hand hung a long slender sword._

_The man on the ground gritted his teeth. His hips bucked and his legs jerked wildly under the masters’ iron grip. Suddenly, one of the masters flipped him over like a trout and delivered swift blows to his back. The man was rolled face-up, alive but struggling no more. She later learned that technique (used to lock the muscles in place). It was a method commonly used._

_Common. Necessary. It was what it was._

_The elder at last reach the man’s side. He scanned the paralyzed man like a tree about to be split. His face was unreadable (Mirra was allowed to look because he faced away from her). This was necessary. Nothing unusual._

_The blade rose overhead. Silence gripped the glen. Then a rush of cold metal and splattered blood and it was over._

_Mirra watched it all unblinking. Her insides felt cold. It was not the first time she had seen death, but it was the first time she had seen a man’s life taken by another._

_Just a task. Nothing uncommon._

_Killing was necessary._

_That night, rivers of blood soaked her dreams._

 “…already, coward!” sneered the dwarf in between breaths. “Go a’ead, cut my throat, if you ‘ave the stomach fer it!”

Mirra stared down at the dwarf for a long, bitter moment. Then ever so slowly, she raised the knife above her head. He froze, his face twitching with anger and fear.

Her hand rose higher.

His breathing became erratic. The knob in his throat bobbed furiously.

_Kill him, kill him, kill kill kill-!_

_Thunk._

She took a breath. Half a foot away from dwarf’s temple, the knife stuck out of the ground like a planted flag. When the dwarf realized he had been spared, a wicked smile of triumph spread on his blood-caked face.

Around her murmured a crowd of grim-faced dwarves. They muttured in low tones and threw scornful. No one seemed surprised; it was as if they were waiting for this strange mannish woman to attack one of their own.

She paid no attention to the dwarf or anyone else. It was what it was, regardless of the validation of others. Her eyes were only for the small, trembling child standing nearby who had not yet re-opened his eyes.

“Halnar!” The crowdline split and out burst a whirlwind of fury and threadbare skirts. The dwarfling was suddenly swooped up by a familiar, hysterical dwarfmother. “Halnar, Halnar…” Belga soothed half to herself, half to the child engulfed in her gray-linen arms. He remained frozen for a moment, but then curled into his mother and buried his face in her shoulder. Belga’s eyes were closed, her face soft as sunshine, as mother and son seemed to melt into each other.

Wet streaks painted her cheeks. It was raw, shameless, brimming with love and anguish from what could have happened, what could have been lost.

Two faces appeared next beside Belga’s gray skirts. Naldar and Valdar looked to the boy in their mother’s arms with naked relief. But when their faces turned to Mirra and the dwarf sprawled on the ground, their eyes popped like moons. A small pit carved itself in Mirra’s chest.

“Gedoff ‘im.” The dwarfmother glared at her over her son’s shoulder. Halnar murmured something in his mother’s ear, but it seemed to go unheard. Belga’s expression was black and hard as granite.

Mirra wanted to throw something.

Instead, she got up, letting the snarling dwarf scuttle up and spit at her heels. She slipped through the crowd, letting them mutter in their tongue words of contempt for her. Her insides felt cold and numb. No, it was what it was, regardless of the validation of others.

 _The dwarfling’s quivering eyes._ _Fear had seized him entirely._

_Fear, she realized, of her._

Over her shoulder erupted powerful, metallic _Bang!_

“HOW _DARE_ YE TOUCH MY SON!” screeched a familiar voice.

“Ain't--yers--t' keep,” presumably the child-thief croaked from the ground. "Ne'er was-- ain't ne'er gonna be-” – _Bang!_

“ _RUKHSUL MENU SHIRIMUND!_ ” Mirra looked back; a purple-faced Belga wielded an iron pan over her head like a battle-axe. “YE BEDDER BEG MAHAL,” rose the cry above the valley, “THAT A THOUSAND” – _Bang!_ \- “BLOODY” – _Bang!_ – “ORCS” – _Bang!_ – “FIND YE OAT’BREAKIN’ ” – Smash! - “CADAVER BEFORE YE TOUCH MY CHILD AGAIN!” – _Whoomp!_

A series of shouts and a tussle followed - most likely they were holding the vengeful tempest of a woman back. And then it faded away, blending with the shimmying of leaves and the snick-snick of crickets and the song of the wind slipping through the trees as Mirra stood on the rim of the settlement, ready to plunge into the great green woods.

The woods, the closest thing she had to a home.

The woods, the place she felt most secure.

_Terror had seized the child._

_He was terrified of her._

 

-

If Balin were not always there, Thorin might have drowned in the duties of princehood. The days of roaming the wood were long gone; now there was always something (and often multiple somethings) that demanded his attention. There were letters to write, agreements to negotiate, disputes to settle, actions to approve, plans to make, so on and so forth. Not that it wasn’t all important, but from time to time he found himself gazing at the blue peaks rising above the valley and remembering what it had been like to have _some_ measure of freedom.

But then he would chide himself, for freedom was a luxury he could no longer afford, and he reminded himself that for far too long, he and his people had been far too free.

One matter that persistently gave him a headache was a certain portion of the dwarves who complained about settling out in the open. They longed for the mountain halls of old, to be underground again. But crops – which they needed – could not be farmed in the tunnels, and Mahal knows what else had made its home down there in the past thousand years.

Another matter was, on that note, trade. Dwarves are workers at heart; the majority of dwarf men (due to a lack of women) would wind up married to their work. But they could not work for nothing, and coin was in short supply here. He had to reforge old bonds and build new ones if his people were to truly make a livelihood. It would happen, Balin assured him, but in due time. Thorin wondered if he and his people could wait for due time.

 “…wrestled him to the ground, and held a knife to his throat.”

Then there was a third matter, one that had sprung up today.

In a chair beside him sat a dwarf in reddish robes, his beard long and graying and his upper-lip singularly hairless. His spectacled eyes scanned the parchment in his hands. “After holding him down for no less than a minute,” he read, “she threw the knife in the ground, but kept him pinned there until the mother of the child ordered her off. Then she disappeared.” His eyebrows rose in bemusement. He looked up at Thorin. “Is this all, m’lord?”

“Isn’t it enough?” muttered Thorin, staring at the floorboards. His hands knit together and he pressed them to his mouth.

Balin nodded thoughtfully, watching the prince like a father waiting for his son to tell him what is amiss. Sometimes it was easy to believe that Balin was a great deal more than 10 years his senior.

After a long moment of silence, Thorin finally spoke: “Tell me, why must she answer for her actions? What actions has she to answer for?”

Balin pressed his lips together and threw him a sympathetic look. Thorin knew what he would say: that the tensions within Durin’s Folk ran high as it is; that decades of wandering the land with little hope or help from others had made them weary and bitter; that he fact that child-thievery was even attempted among their own was evidence enough. To pardon Mirra would be to put an outsider before a man of his own race (no matter how despicable his actions were). To pardon her would at the very least cause outrage among his people, and at the very worst, doubt in his family’s rule.

All because Mirra - in their eyes – was simply just another mannish woman.

Even though that was sure thunder not true.

“If we could find her and speak to her-”

“She’ll be long gone.”

“You talk with great surety, Thorin.”

“A pity that I don’t feel it.” Thorin rubbed circles into his leathery brow. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Why had she done it? She had a strong sense of morality, yes, but also the capability for savagery within her. Was she protecting the boy? So much of him wanted to scream, _yes, yes, of course!_ but a drop of doubt wormed its way into his brain, asking in a soft, biting tone if the boy was an afterthought, if today she simply snapped.

He didn’t know. He simply didn’t know with her.

_Mahal above, to have journeyed the land with someone for eleven moons and still find her a stranger!_

Suddenly, there came a _boom-boom_ from the door, ripping Thorin out of his thoughts.

 “Enter,” he said breathlessly. But before it left his tongue. in walked a gruff dwarf clad in knives, leather, and furs.

“Dwalin,” greeted Thorin with the smallest of smiles. Dwalim gave a short bob respect to Thorin. His distinctive brown tuft of hair bobbed with him. “How goes it with you?”

“Well ‘nough, m’lord,” grumbled the guardsman. “That is, till this business with the mannish lass.”

On most occasions, after countless exchanges with many a long-winded noble, the prince appreciated how quickly his chief guardsman got to the point. This was not one of those occasions. “What about it?”

But suddenly Dwalin was not paying attention. His eyes narrowed at the wall behind Thorin. “When’d ye open this window ‘ere?”

“I do not remember and I couldn’t care less.” Thorin frowned where a dark-browed Dwalin was now inspecting. “What about her?”

“Oy, I’m doin’ my job ‘ere, which is protectin’ yer royal ars- er, self, m’lord.”

“Dwa _lin_.”

When the guardsman turned around, his customary growl slackened with disbelief. Thorin was on his feet, glaring thunderously in his direction. Dwalin slowly tromped back to his prince.

“Apol’gies.” After a tense moment, Thorin sat down again. Forgiven, forgotten, return to business. “My guardsmen finished up collectin’ the last statements.”

Balin quirked his head with a frown. “I thought this was it.”

“That’d make two of us,” snapped the guardsman, though he glanced cautiously to Thorin to make sure he was treading the right way. “The mother o’ the lad all but cornered them, they say, demandin’ her words be ‘eard.”

“What’d she say?” said a foggy-eyed Thorin absently.

Dwalin’s nose twitched as though his mouth were holding a lemon. “That the mannish woman was in the lines o’ the law, that she acted on due vengeance, and so ‘the magistrate be damned’.”

Both Balin and Thorin’s heads whipped towards the guardsman. Balin tested the words ‘due vengeance’ on his lips, and then a smile broke over his shocked face.

“Aha!” He clapped his hands in delight, ignoring the jumps of his brother and the prince. “Superb! Oh, I could not have thought of a cleverer defense! Why did I not think of a cleverer defense? Due vengeance: ah, my stars-”

“Remind me what that is,” said the prince dryly. “The day has been long and draining.”

Balin’s eyes sparkled as he spoke. “In law,” he breathed excitedly, “the offending party commits an infraction against the offended party. Due vengeance” – his smile stretched wider – “gives an offended party, in the event of a most grievous wrong, permission to commit an act of retribution to a reasonable extent.”

“Plainer terms, brother. I’m no lass to be wooed with poetry.”

Balin narrowed his eyes. Thorin, meanwhile, nodded in slow understanding. That is, understood the words coming from Balin’s mouth, but his mind felt too numb to let them fully sink in.

“It means,” Balin said more calmly, but bearing a grin still, “that if a dwarf wrongs another dwarf, “then instead waiting on justice from a magistrate, that offended dwarf may take matters into his own hands, so long as his actions do not exceed the severity of the crime. The circumstances rarely permit it; it is limited to the most serious crimes.” Balin looked excitedly into Thorin’s eyes. “Crimes such as child-thievery.”

The numbness spread from Thorin’s brain through his entire body. His jaw opened and he heard the words coming from his mouth as though another person were saying them. “The dwarf tried to take the boy. Mirra reacted, trying to save the boy and thus taking vengeance.”

“And because she did not kill him-”

“It was lawful.” Thorin tried hard not to end with a grin. But then a thought hit him and his joy came crashing down. “The offended party. The child did not belong to Mirra, so she was not the one offended. The right to vengeance can only go to-”

“Family,” finished Dwalin. He caught his companions’ expression of shock and straightened up indignantly. “I spend more time wit’ the law than the both of you learned type combined,” he barked.

Then more evenly: “After readin’ the statement, I went t’ see the woman myself to verify it all, explain what she was implyin’, and remind ‘er that this was all official and the hills she’s makin’ were ‘ere to stay. Tha’s what took all the time.”

“What was she implying—oh.” And like that, the numbness fell. Like that, the true weight of Belbar’s wife’s words collapsed over him like a wall of water through a broken dam. He couldn’t help but smile. “ _Family_.”

Dwalin simply cracked his neck “All she said was _,_ ‘Implyin’s an imp away from lyin’ an’ I don’t lie’.” The guardsman shifted his feet, neither contradicting Thorin nor returning the smile.

Thorin knew what Dwalin’s opinion of Mirra was; that it came from a general instinctive distrust that had only deepened with age; and that the Misty Mountains would shift before the mind of Dwalin ever would. But his honor and loyalty to Thorin ran deeper than his suspicion of Mirra. Still, it wouldn’t have made delivering this news to Thorin any easier.

“Much thanks, Dwalin.” He clasped the guardman’s shoulder firmly. Dwalin’s eyebrows twitched – he had not expected this – but when he met Thorin’s eyes, he returned the gesture with a bone-jumbling clap of his own. As both men stood there, no smiles were exchanged, but eyes remained warm and open. _Friend._

“Alas, with Mirra--” Balin said with a questioning brow as Thorin and Dwalin’s hands fell away. “Is this the path we wish to follow, m’lord Thorin?”

Balin was awaiting commands. For Thorin was prince; he would lead, others would follow. Thorin wondered how long it’d be before that mode felt natural, before he and title fit like one.

In the meantime: “Do you see another path, Balin?”

The scholar shook his head. “None better, m’lord, but if the woman has disappeared-”

“I will handle it.” Thorin said it before his mind had fully processed his words (and Balin’s frown seconded that belief), but he meant it. Somehow he’d set this right with her. She was his charge after all.

“I’m not one to argue with a sworn official statement,” the prince continued smoothly. “If she has acknowledged the mannish woman as a member of her family, and the argument for due vengeance seems valid, then this case does not need my higher involvement. Dwalin, I trust you will do what needs to be done to put this matter to rest.”

The guardsman gave him a short, stiff bow. “Aye, m’lord.”

“Good, then I dismiss-”

“What the blazes!?”

All of a sudden, a savage-eyed Dwalin belted towards the window. The only thing Thorin saw before being shoved back by his guards was a flicker of mousy-brown hair and a pale hand disappearing into the darkness.

“Git back ‘ere ye little--” Dwalin thrust an axe out the window and struck the empty night air. He looked about wildly, but clearly without success. He swore. Multiple times.

“Check the grounds!” His bellows shook the chamber. “Check every damned inch of this damned house like ye checkin’ fer fleas, and find that sonuvabitch before-”

“Daughter.”

Everyone’s eyes latched on Thorin, who knelt on the ground (from where he was shoved down) chuckling softly to himself. Dwalin looked like he wanted to shake the daylights out of him, out of both frustration and befuddlement. But all the while, the prince enjoyed something like a joke that no one else understood.

“Daughter,” he repeated through snorts. “Not _son_ of a bitch. And do not worry yourself, Dwalin, with finding her: she’s already gone.”

Understanding dawned first on Balin. “Gone where, m’lord?”

Thorin shrugged. “Back, I presume.”

“Back? Where?”

“She has a promise to keep. A promise to me.” He stood up and with a contemplative expression paced towards the window. “You are dismissed.”

After an awkward pause, the chamber emptied. Thorin remained by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Before him, across the black velvet valley, twinkled a hundred cooking fires like glimmering stars. Above loomed a half-moon, partly obscured by the soaring peaks of the Blue Mountains. The night was cool and breathtakingly still.

 

Thorin closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and let out a slow, controlled exhale as if savoring the air. His skin had dulled since his days in the woods, and the iron in his eyes seemed thickened. But the cold fire in those eyes remained burning and the jut of that jaw unmistakably noble. His face was a familiar mask painted in sternness and reserve, but etched with pain. Beneath the cracks lay a past bloated with grief and a future carved of hollows he was obliged to fill.

It was the same man, Mirra realized with a breath of relief. Perhaps as he fell further into his princely duties, the hollows had become more gaping; but underneath it was the man she remembered from long ago. Long ago, for crouching here in the darkness, suddenly the time since they last saw each other seemed to span ages. Why?

 _No, no, I did not miss him_. Missing something implied attachment. _And attachment is impractical when loss is inevitable._ _Loss…_ An ache sprouted in her chest at that thought.

So the thought was shoved away. She did not think about why loss and the iron-eyed man created a dull pang in her.

Or why following trouble, her first instinct had been to come to Thorin.

 

-

“Oy! Mirra’s back!”

“Mirra! Mirra! Mirra!” Through the light in the window frames, Mirra saw three little figures hurtling out the door towards her. She stiffened and shut her eyes, but the dwarflings stopped just short of her. It was hard to make out their expression in the dark, but then again, she didn’t have to.

“You were brilliant this morn!”

“Couldn’t believe my eyes-!”

“Flipped ‘im down like a sack of potatoes-!”

“Are you an elf-?”

“Oy, don’t you dare call ‘er an elf-!”

“I wish I cou’ be like you-”

“No, you don’t.” The smiles promptly fell into kicked-puppy pouts.

"Oh come now," boomed a voice from the shadowy doorway. "They meant no harm by it, jus' lads bein' lads." Out stepped the weaponsmith, (unsmiling beneath his fiery-red beard but) his eyes twinkling (did twinkle) in the firelight glimmering from within the house.

"Oy!" came a bellow from within. "Sup's up! Naldar, Valdar, Halnar, get in while it's hot!"

"Smells like rabbit," remarked Naldar (oldest) with a savoring grin. The three boys went trotting into the house. As a hubbub of bowls clacking, ladles slapping, whines and moans arose, the littlest dwarfling paused at the door and looked back to Mirra. His eyes were wide and his smile was soft as he shyly mouthed the words 'thank you'. "Ey, youngest first tonight. Halnar! Git!" And he slipped inside.

Mirra and the weaponsmith were left behind.

"We'll follow them to supper in a moment," declared the smith. "Come." He patted her on the shoulder and Mirra instinctively ducked. He looked as though he didn't notice, instead gesturing to a set of logs that once upon a time served as their dining chairs before they had a home. The family, of course. Mirra was not included in the 'they'.

Or so she had once thought.

"I won't ask ye where ye went after this morning." Belbar sat back on a log seat. "I won't ask cos' you came back. Thorin told me you did that, that you had a knack for comin' back."

"He has a good deal of faith in me," replied Mirra evenly taking a log seat across from him.

"And now it’s plain to see why." He looked to her with a mix of awe, curiosity, and thoughtfulness. “My wife today at market defended ye stoutly, if ye don’t know-”

“I do.”

“Ah, well…”

There wasn’t much to say. Mirra still had no idea what to say in light of all that happened today.

“…thank you,” was what eventually fell out of her mouth.

"You saved my boy. That's a debt I may never be able to repay, and the least any of us could do was to keep the law off ye."

For some reason, that eased the weight on Mirra’s shoulder. _So it was just for these circumstances. Nothing more_. The moniker of ‘family’ meant nothing in regard to her. _Good_ , she thought. _A return to normal_.”

"All I came here for is a sword,” she said. “That is all that is owed to me."

"Aye, aye, and a tricky matter that is." Belbar looked uneasily down at his hands, exploring the wear and tear of his aged palms. "I... I have not been fully honest wit' ye. A sword of mine doesn’t come cheaply."

"Thorin told me that the debt was compensation enou-"

"I mean, a blade costs me just as much to craft as it costs my customer. The ore isn’t just any ore; it’s a special recipe of- well, that’d be tellin’, wouldn’t it?” He smirked. Mirra did not smile back. “Then there’s the crafting itself; takes upwards of three weeks, if I got no other projects, and takes a great deal of precision. And I don't have..." - he hung his head in frustration. “No, no, I can’t do this. I can’t ask ye to do another favor for my family.”

“Oh yes, ye can,” said an irritated voice. Belga leaned against the doorframe, her arms folded crossly. She gave no recognition of Mirra; her eyes were instead narrowed upon her husband.

“Belga, it isn’t proper of me. There is honor-”

“And there is askin’ for whatcha need, and we need money.”

The dwarfmother rounded on Mirra, her eyes stony as ever. Mirra wondered if Thorin simply made up what Belga did for her, for it seemed increasingly impossible now.

“In about two weeks’ time, the king and the rest of our folk will be arrivin’ in Ered Luin. Then we got winter upon us. In the spring, so the gab goes, there’s gonna be a festival. This won’t be some half-arsed country market; it’s to be the first festival we’ve ‘ad in decades. Drinkin’, music, feastin’, an’ games.” Her eyes glittered eagerly. “Ye got yer wrestlin’, foot racin’, leikr-”

“That’s two teams fightin’ over a bundle of pigskin-”

“ _Tch!_ ” Belga gave a gesture that silenced Belbar. “Stone tossin’, bearskin rippin’, and then the big one: the axe throw.”

“The axe throw,” added Belbar with resentful permission from his wife, “is one of the oldest, most traditional, and toughest sports in the games. There’s nothing more dwarvish than an axe. This is the pride of our people.”

“Ye’ll be goin’ against the best of ‘em-”

“Wait, me?”

Belga rolled her eyes indignantly. “If my boys interrupted me half as oft as you two-”

“But I don’t understa-”

“Then lemme _finish_ , for Mahal’s sake!” she bellowed. Mirra reluctantly obeyed. “Any ‘ow, the best of ‘em will be competin’. Big competition, but fat prize.”

“For every sport, there’s a prize for the victor,” Belbar carried on. “The axe throw’s got the biggest pot of the games, and not to mention the wagerin’ that goes on to the side, oh ho! that’s nothing to sniff at-”

“So, what you want me to do,” said Mirra, speaking slowly and carefully, “is to compete at these games, and win you money.”

“In the axe throw, aye,” said Belga gravely. “And not jus' competin': ye gonna win it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The lock-muscle thing is a bullshit deus ex machina based on chi-blocking, a wicked-cool technique used in Legend of Korra :D  
> 2\. Rukhsul menu shirimund is really bastardized Khuzdul for ‘beardless son of an orc.’ Its modern equivalent is more likely ‘motherfucker’ than ‘son of a bitch’ based on the degree of the swear and the fact that Belga is using it in front of an outsider, i.e. Mirra.  
> 3\. Secretive Belbar won’t tell you what the sword is made of because he’s a dwarf and dwarves are supposed to keep some secrets (also lazy author couldn’t find it online)  
> 4\. Leikr was the general Viking term for a ball game. Here I’m using it as rugby.  
> 5\. Yes, I realize the dwarves are probably revealing a shitton of their culture to Mirra. I’m trying to minimize the canon damage, maximize the believability, and keep the plot going. My only defense is that Bilbo himself earned the dwarves’ trust relatively quickly both by the vouching of a respected person (Gandalf for Bilbo; Thorin for Mirra) and by showing selflessness and courage (defending Thorin from brink of death; saving a dwarf kidlet)  
> If you guys have any opinions on this at all (from ‘it’s fine, calm your tits, don’t worry about it’ to ‘WTH ARE YOU DOING’) please inbox me. Thank you!
> 
> I'm so sorry this took so damn long for me to write. I really have no excuse anymore. All you guys are the best, thank you so much!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So…I’m just as tired of Thorin not being here as you probably are. So expect more Thorin POV and some flashbacks. Oooo, flashback within a flashback, so you can have your flashbacks with your flashbacks while you flashback on those flashbacks and flashbacks. Flashback is a funny word.  
> ANYWAY I’m back. \\(°-°)/

“Win?”

“One prize, an’ it ain’t goin’ t’ second best.”

“You think I can win an axe-throw against dwarves?”

“No,” said Belga shortly. “Ye gotta. Not a bit or but aroun’ it.”

“Besides,” added Belbar with a nervous smile. “You know your way around a sword and a bow like they came outta the womb with you. Surely you’ve thrown an axe before.”

“I don’t follow your logic.”

“Ye mean ye haven’t?”

Mirra shook her head.

“Oh, fer the bloody love o’ Mahal!” The dwarfmother threw up her hands, wheeling on her husband with a scowl. “I told ye! I damn well told ye this’d be a fool’s errand!”

“Forgive me,” he replied, his tone most unforgiving. “But who was the fool who thought it up?”

Mirra sat quietly to the side as they bickered. They assumed that she had as much expertise with any weapon as she did with her sword and bow – that skill was undeniable, observable fact – but they also assumed that she could not _learn_ how to throw an axe. She could do this, train daily until the spring, earn them the money they needed to make her a sword and go on her way…

Or, she could go now.

She’d venture out of the mountains, barter for a good sword, or steal one, and then she’d be free. She’d plunge back into the wilderness. She’d hunt and gather and roam as she pleased. She’d live with the company of herself and herself alone, and never would she have to see another dwarf or man or orc again…

The temptation tugged at her, and it tugged hard. To leave and be free, or stay and…what? What was here that she could not provide herself?

Before her stood Belga and Belbar, red-faced and splattered with spittle, barking at each other without abandon. Three heads poked out from the doorway – how long ago had that house been not but lone wooden pillars? – watching the scene with curious eyes. One pair of eyes sneaked a glance towards Mirra.

_“Do you have any family?”_

_Mirra flicked her eye, mid-bite into her rabbit. Thorin watched her, perhaps even studied her, behind his steely blue gaze. While the firelight revealed nothing in his carefully neutral face, Thorin’s eyes were a different story. In order to study her depths, they revealed their own. And those iron eyes had softened as the journey wore on._

_“I have told you already.” She chewed on the tough meat, paying no mind to the smell of burning fur in the twilight air; she welcomed overcooked rabbit after weeks of roots and nuts._

_“You did, once.” He looked at her more when they spoke. Perhaps it’s only natural, for they spent much time together now. Mirra wouldn’t know; she’s never spent so much time with one person. At least, outside of- “But if you were telling the truth, or the whole truth, that would amaze me.”_

_“Prepare to be amazed then,” she replied dryly. “My people had none of what you call ‘family’. We had elders, who ruled us, and odhas*, who trained us.”_

_“Trained you for what?”_

What _didn’t_ they train us for? _Her mouth opened to answer, but a little voice insider her head shut it again. How much had she revealed about her people already? What did outsiders already know of them; what stories ran through the land, what legends, what tales of horror? Was it enough that he could put the pieces together? Mirra honestly did not know. And that terrified her._

_“Very well, then.” Thorin cleared his throat, taking Mirra’s silence for reluctance and back off the subject – which she thanked him for. The twitch of his nose showed mild irritation; for now, he would let it go for now, but one day, he will demand it._

_Her blood went ice-cold at that thought._

Halnar simply regarded her. He held no readable expression, with no obvious joy or fear. _No fear_. Mirra kept herself from inhaling sharply, but a knot in her stomach that she did not feel before now dissolved. She bobbed her head at him, and his lips twitched into a vague smile.

From their perch on the forest’s edge, a hundred light glimmered across the valley. Cricket chirps mixed with wisps of chatter from the hundreds of dwarf families. And on a slight hill in the middle of the valley sat the largest wooden home of all.

_“How about yourself?”_

_The next morning, Thorin had woken to Mirra smoking the last strips of rabbit meat. He grumblingly took over while she cleared the camp (which she was clearly better at doing than he, though he would never admit that). It had been when the last bones were discarded and the fire about to be doused that she suddenly turned to him. “How about your family?”_

_“What about them?” he grumbled, hoisting up his pack._

_“I don’t know. Do you have a mother, or a father? Or brothers, or what do they call them when it is a girl-?”_

_“Sisters,” he said without malice. “I have a sister. And I once had a brother, and a mother.”_

_“Oh.” The memory flooded her: Thorin buckled over, cradling a glassy-eyed dwarf whose blonde hair was blackened and smeared with blood. Mirra felt heat rush to her cheeks. “I am-”_

_“My mother died in dragon-fire, and my brother fell in battle, a battle begun after my grandfather’s head was returned without a body attached. Pity changes nothing, so give me none.” His iron eyes swiveled around, searching for the path that Mirra already found. “The line of Durin is a long, sad tale.”_

_Mirra shrugged. “We have a long ways to go.”_

_“Only if you are certain.” His voice was soft yet his eyes were clear. He had either dealt with their loss or grown numb to his grief. He asked Mirra for Mirra’s sake alone._

_The only thing uncertain to her was how she should feel about this._

_“Tell me. If you would.”_

_And so he did._

“…I’ll do it.”

Belga and Belbar were mid-bellow when their heads whipped towards her.

“The axe-throw. I’ll do it.” Mirra set her eyes at the ground. _Accept it, before I change my mind_.

Belga for once looked to be at a loss for words. Her husband blinked a few times, but once it sunk into his head, he leaped up with delight. “Haha, fantastic! I knew it! Right from the start I knew it! I owe my deepest thanks-”

“Ain’t a favor when she gits something out’ov it, too,” grumbled his wife. “Oy, boys!” Three pairs of feet scurried into the house chased by a rather crabby, rather tired dwarfmother.

The weaponsmith, meanwhile, remained outside, beaming like a man possessed.

 “We will begin training tomorrow!” he cried. “Tricky matter it is, teaching ye how to throw an axe if you’ve never thrown one before.” His fingers threaded themselves through his beard as he paced back and forth. “Belga says you got a good arm, but axe-throwin’s a whole different warg from simply wrestlin’ a dwarf, or a troll for that matter-”

“A what?” Mirra’s eyes flashed cold.

“Hm?” He batted his hand at the air, ignoring her growl. “Prince Thorin happen’d t’ mention it. Ye got more strength than meets the eye, it seems.” He peered up at her, evaluating her arms and shoulders like he’d evaluate a blade. “How many months we got? One, two…six months. Fewer than liked, but not impossible. No, it will be done.” He threw a startlingly enthusiastic grin at Mirra. “By my beard, we will see it be done.”

 

-

By the third week, Mirra felt disheartened.

“Pivot, release, follow through. Can I get any clear’r?”

Axes were nothing like swords or arrows or clubs or anything she had ever used before. Heavy and unwieldy, they required both precision and brute force, to concentrate all your strength into a split-second release. Mirra had the focus, precision, and strength necessary, that was without question. But something kept eluding her; something simply would not click.

“Oy! Watch yourself with that axe! It’s my…”

_Your great-great-grandfather’s great uncle’s,_ recited Mirra internally as she rolled her eyes. _Passed down through all those generations as a mighty dwarven battle-axe and the last thing it needs…_

“…is some mannish lady treatin’ it like a woodchopper!” snapped the weaponsmith, his eyes ablaze.

“The axe is unharmed. See?” She thrust it out for his inspection.

He peered down at it. The axe was in fine condition but he scowled nonetheless. “Ye need to carry through more.”

“I am.”

“Not ‘nough, you’re as stiff as a board. Look, your shoulders an’ back-”

“Don’t,” she snarled. “Touch. Me.”

He raised his hands, backing away several steps. While his expression remained neutral, his eyes had hardened. The hilt of his throwing axe glinted from his mahogany leather belt, but he carefully made no move for it. Belbar, she realized, was watching her like a seasoned fighter, anticipating her possible moves, waiting for her to strike first.

And for a fiery shameful moment, Mirra craved to give it to him.

“Tell me,” said the fire-bearded dwarf all of a sudden, “how long’s it been since you’ve struggled to learn something?”

It shattered the wild rage. Mirra blinked at him, and then looked away, although it disgusted her to do so.

“Tha’s what I thought.” Belbar approached with soft, questioning eyes. He gently pried the battle-axe from her hands. “I think it’s time t’ call it a day.”

Mirra said nothing, split between shame at herself for failing and shame at her teacher for treating her so gently.

 

-

Belga went to market alone now to sell her wool blankets. When the load proved too much for her to carry alone, Valdar joined her. As the middle child, he often alternated between his older and younger brothers. Halnar occupied himself by running around with friends nearby: a fat carrot-headed boy and his brother who wore a strange hat. Naldar, as the eldest, had now taken up his father’s mallet in the workshop, per apparent dwarf custom. Heritage, Belbar called it with a swell of pride. Both of these - heritage and pride - seemed to run deep in dwarven culture.

Come dusk, Mirra and Belbar returned from their practice glen with weary arms and weary looks. By then, Belga was banging on her pot to call supper. The younger boys would gallop to her. Naldar now preferred to walk.

Dinner was a play with a consistent plot and established roles. Halnar and Valdar would inevitably fight over some morsel of food and began throwing things, cueing Belga to bark at them if thing became too rowdy. Belbar would clap his hand on Naldar’s back and ask him about the shop, and the boy would grin and tell them all about what orders he filled that day. And Belbar would then launched into a tale of some illustrious ancestor, making everyone groan and Belga roll her eyes. And all the while, Mirra would sip her stew in silence, finish with an appreciative nod (such were good manners), wash her own bowl, and then go off to occupy herself.

After dinner ended, the boys were sent to bed. Then Belbar and Belga would sit themselves just outside the door, light up their pipes, and smoke together for a while.

 “…gossipin’ in the market, ye know,” Belga muttered to her husband one night after supper. “They talk ‘bout ‘er.” Mirra sat inside, silently greasing her longbow. It was easy to picture the dwarfmother jerking her chin at her. “Ye can make yerself rich as a robber collectin’ all the the two pence they jus’ _‘ave_ t’ put in.”

“Certainly,” replied Belbar with little interest. He puffed out a fat ring of smoke. “Course they’re gonna talk.”

“It’s wha’ they’re sayin’ that migh’ perk yer ear,” Belga snapped, clicking her teeth. “Some, believe it if ye will, are feelin’ a change of heart.”

Mirra could almost hear Belbar’s mouth drop in shock.

“Tis true, I swear it.” The dwarfmother blew a smoke ring of her own. “What…’appened at market a moon or so ago, it made ‘n impression. Riskin’ ‘er life for one of us, an’ then not slittin’ the filthy bastard’s throat-”

“Must we recall such things?”

“We must,” she spat. “Cos it’s the shit tha’ makes ye appreciate the gold. Anyway, they still take ye for a dwarf of honor. So if ye’re treatin’ ‘er like a respectable dwarf, then tha’s good ‘nough for them. They’ll put up wit’ her. Half o’ them, leastwise.”

Belbar’s lips smacked on the pipe. The smoke wandered into Mirra’s nose; bitter and thick, yet a bit soothing once the acridness had gone. “The others?”

“Take a gander,” was her sour reply.

The weaponsmith let loose one last ring of smoke. It hovered, wobbled in the night air, and then faded into nothing. As if it was never there at all.

-

“Why did the dwarf in the market say Halnar wasn’t yours to keep?”

Six weeks had passed and the weaponsmith went stiff at her question. Mirra did not care; she needed the break to regain her focus, and perhaps getting some of her questions answered would help.

“Nothing escapes you, does it?” he grumbled.

Mirra cocked her head “How do you mean?”

His boots thudded the ground as he walked over to the axe blade-down in the ground. “That dwarf wasn’ worth the hairs on his chin.” The weaponsmith wrenched it up and examined its blade with a master’s touch.

“Truth is truth. The character of the dwarf does not change the character of his words.”

“That may be, in whatever clan you come from. But ‘ere, a dwarf is nothing _but_ his word.” Belbar shoved the battle-axe at her, throwing her a frosty look. “Throw it again.”

Her face twitched, but she seized the battle-axe without a word.

By now, Mirra could throw an axe nearly 38 paces at best.

The top dwarven throwers managed at least 55 paces.

It frustrated her to end.

 

-

One day, the yells of messengers rang through the Blue Mountains: “The king has arrived! King Thrain has come at last!”

All work ceased. Every dwarf in the valley seemed to drop what he or she was doing to rush towards the center of the village, Belbar most certainly included. Even Belga seemed livelier than usual at the king’s arrival, though she made sure each of her three boys had dressed properly before hurrying them out to the crowd. Mirra ignored the excitement; the king was not her king after all, and with the more dwarves around, the more trouble she made. She heard an account later from Halnar.

From his papa’s shoulders, he could easily the dwarf king. King Thrain had sat proud and erect atop a swaying pony between to two guardsmen. Behind the king ambled another pony, but Halnar could not see who rode; the face was blocked by the guardsmen. Anyway, the king led a procession of dwarfmen. Halnar watched their helmets bob as they marched to the beat of heavy drums.

Some hobbled, some staggered, and many bore white cloth around one limb or more. They, like the king, did not smile. And the crowd watching the march also did not smile.

At one point, the wail of one dwarfling rose over the silent crowd. The cry rang and rang, until you barely heard the low thudding of the drums.

 

-

Thorin’s head was splitting.

He had thought – or rather hoped – that his duties would dwindle with his father’s arrival to the royal manor. Alas, the weeks preceding and following his arrival proved the prince to be very, very mistaken.

When the porter came to his door, his expression grave, Thorin had half an idea about what was to come. He had been expecting it at some occasion. But he had thought – or hoped – that the matter would come to nothing, that Thrain could be convinced if Thorin put forward his case.

The look on Balin’s face, as the scholar stood right before the throne room doors, shattered his illusions. “He’s…displeased, Thorin.”

 “His Royal Majesty shall now see the prince,” proclaimed an attendant in a loud, stiff voice. The doors opened and Thorin’s mouth went dry.

The throne room was eight columns long, its walls lined with a colorful array of banners. Each bore the crest and color of a noble family who had sworn fealty to the king. At the far wall hung of course the royal banner, the largest and most spectacular banner in the deepest shade of midnight. It hung over a carved oaken throne draped in furs, with two guards posted on either side.

And in the throne itself sat King Thrain himself.

 “Father.” The prince gave a small bow, taking his eyes off the king only for a moment. “You called.”

He looked stiff and stoic at first glance. His face, though gnarled and withered with age, held all the hardness of granite. His single eye blazed with perpetual fire. In his near two centuries of life, the king had mastered the art of diplomacy; no emotion escaped that stony face unless he let it.

For this reason, Thorin always kept his guard up around his father.

“You have gathered why, I presume.” Sharp and direct, like a spearhead. Thorin winced at the impact.

“Yes, m’lord,” he replied with a stiff lip.

Along the side of the halls stood six or so noblemen in their finery. They bore solemn expressions but Thorin caught what he thought was the faintest of sneers.

With a rustle of furs and thick wool cloaks, the king leaned forward towards Thorin. “I am inclined to think I know my children,” rumbled the old king. “And I am inclined to believe that my _heir_ would never do something so irresponsible as to endanger the lives of our people.”

His eye glinted like cold silver. “Explain.”

It was all he needed to say. The threat echoed around the chamber without a sound.

It left Thorin no choice.

So he recounted everything, taking care to emphasize the moments when Mirra had saved his life or defended their people. Some parts he left out: the advising of Balin for the scholar’s own protection, the time Thorin called her spy and assassin, and the time when she came into slavery and later fell to blood frenzy. But it surprised even Thorin how many encounters he could list. He finished with a recount of his debt to her, and their ultimate deal.

When Thorin had no more to say, the room fell into silence. The king rose from his throne, stretching up like an old powerful bear. He took slow, noble steps, roaming about the throne room deep in though. His gnarled hands stroked at his beard – an elegant web of intricate gold beads.

It was unclear how long Thorin had stood in that hall before the King stopped in his steps. “You tell of her honor, Thorin, with great fondness.”

Thorin swallowed. “I speak the truth, whether it is with fondness or not.”

“You don’t believe, then,” drawled the king in measured tones, “that you speak from any…attachment.”

The noblemen kept themselves solemn - such was expected in the presence of the king – but at least three bore a mischievous glint in their eyes. Something bitter simmered in the back of Thorin’s throat.

“No. M’lord,” the prince hastily added the formality. “On what ground do you ask?”

“You will be king one day, Thorin. This crown” – he thrust a finger at the heavy silver-gold diadem atop his grizzled gray hair – “is your birthright, your burden, and your destiny.”

“She is not a threat to our people.”

“Pray you are right.” The king flashed him a frosty eye. “It is but the welfare of our entire people put at stake.”

Thorin remained still. His insides suddenly went hollow.

Meanwhile the king had ambled away from the prince. He leaned into a guard’s ear and muttered something. The guard nodded, and then marched out.

“Speaking of your responsibilities as my successor,” continued the king as the door clanged shut. Thorin winced at the sound. “We have another matter to discuss; one that grows more pressing by the day.”

“Which is?” said Thorin crisply, his eyes fixed on the floor.

Whatever the king was about to say was lost as the chamber door opened like a thunderclap. The guard had returned. By his side stood a small, cloaked figure.

Horror slammed into Thorin's head before the figure even revealed its face. He had to steel his legs to keep from falling over.

_By Mahal, no._

 

-

It was fortunate that the king arrived when he did, for soon after, the Blue Mountains tumbled into the jaws of winter.

“What crevice o’ Mordor did this crawl out of?” grumbled Belbar with a _brrr!_ as he shook piles of snow off his shoulder. “The lads just got ‘emselves out in time. Nearly burned out the forges, this damn did-”

“Watch yer bloody language,” snarled Belga, shutting the door on the blinding, howling white. The walls were covered in blankets, with extra wrapped around each boarded window. Her sons huddled together under one blanket until Belga and Belbar each threw away their own. The boys snatched up the blankets with greedy, shivering hands.

“W-W-Where’s M-M-Mirra,” the smallest dwarfling tried to say behind chattering teeth.

Belga ruffled Halnar’s hair and cooed, “She’ll be back soon ‘nough,” just as Belbar whirled around and boomed “She’s still out there?!”

The dwarfmother threw her dumbstruck husband a glare and dragged him into a corner. “Yea,” she hissed. “Off practicin’ last I heard.” “You’re lyin’,” hissed Belbar. “She wasn’ gonna practice t’day. I told ‘er not to.”

“Oh an’ she always listen t’ ye, ‘ow coul’ I forget-”

“Belga,” growled the weaponsmith in a low, dangerous voice. “ _Where. Is. She_?”

The wind howled and beat its awful hands against the rafters. The house creaked but did not budge. Halnar nestled himself among his brothers. All three looked to Belga, faces creased with worry.

The dwarfmother let out a huff and turned her head away. “Sent ‘er to…” Then she mumbled something indinstinct.

“Where!?”

 “Alrigh’ I sent ‘er off t’ get supper!” she spat, folding her arms in defiance. “Wasn’ but a few hours ‘go, notta whiff of snow ‘n the air!”

Belbar knitted his fingers through his hair. “She’ll be dead in an hour,” he groaned. “If she’s not already.”

A little moan escaped the huddle of dwarflings, in near perfect synchronization with the wailing wind outside. Halnar looked just as pale as the blistering snow too.

He waited for his wife to scoff and say, _Go and_ s _ee how much I care_. Instead all that came was a murmur: “Ye think I don’t know tha’?”

Belga had wrapped her rugged arms around herself and drooped her head. Like a moth to a flame, Belbar drifted towards her until he could pull her into his arms. They stood there for a while, wrapped in one another’s warmth, thinking about how blue the mannish woman’s skin would turn as she fell headfirst in the snow.

Remembering his promise to Thorin simply added a bigger knot to the existing bunch in his stomach.

_Please_ , Belbar pleaded silently as the storm howled about them, _Mahal above, please. What she has done for us – for our family, our home, and our entire people – it is far more than we dare admit. Please, Mahal, I beg you of you: please bring her home._

Suddenly at the door: _knock-knock-knock._

“Mirra!” cried out the dwarflings in unison as a snow-angel stumbled onto the ground with gasps, while Belga locked the door firmly behind. The snowy figure got to its feet and revealed a familiar – though frost-nipped and damp – face.

“Supper,” grumbled Mirra. She hoisted a strange, snow-masked shape over her back and it fell on the floor with a thud. There at her feet laid a glassy-eyed buck. “Got lost in the storm, like I just about did.”

The children cheered. Belga scolded Mirra for dripping all over the floor. Belbar had not yet moved from his spot.

 

-

“I am…was one of three brothers,” the weaponsmith finally decided to tell her that night when Belga and the boys had gone off to sleep. “Holbar, then Gulbar, then myself. We stuck together from the time we were babes, we did. We saw Erebor at its highest heights and lowest lows, and we held together in the Dunlands.

“Then… then Thror, the last King Under the Mountain, went to Moria and was returned as a head on a pike. Thrain took up the crown and called upon all able, unwed dwarves to fight before the gates of Moria; Gulbar answered the call. The rest of us - Holbar and I, men of family – made for Ered Luin per royal decree. It was the first time we’d ever parted.”

He shook his head as though to shake off a bad dream. “Pressed our luck, that did. When we three had stuck together, no harm came to us, not even from dragon-fire. Then Gulbar broke off, and he broke off from the luck. Halfway through the journey, the ravens came. My brother was one of those slain in battle.” He stroked his beard, his eyes a tinge misty. “A month later, a pack of orcs stumbled across our train. Holbar rushed after the wargs to defend us … he too fell.”

The weaponsmith suddenly looked an extra hundred years old. Every wrinkle in his old, withered face became more pronounced; every silver hair in his red beard shone like ghosts in the fading twilight. And his eyes…she had seen that kind of eyes before, though on a different man. But the weaponsmith looked simply old and tired, not cold or hard, for he had seen what a dwarf his age is supposed to have seen.

“Halnar, his child, was a mere babe,” he muttered into his knuckles. “And we were the only family he had left.” He looked to Mirra and began wagging his finger. “You gotta stick with your family; don’t go off and leave ‘em. Bad luck is what that is. Bad, bad luck.”

 

-

As the weeks wore on, Belbar found himself having less and less time to teach Mirra. As capable a smith as Naldar was, the orders kept coming in. They needed the extra hands.

It was on such a day that she was practicing by herself that Mirra had a visitor.

“Valdar,” she said all of a sudden, not even turning towards the rustling thicket behind her. “I know you’re there.”

Out popped a wide-eyed Valdar with a bundle of cloth.

“Ma sent me,” said the dwarfling. He flicked his brown hair with a sniff, acting more confident than he felt. “She tol’ me to bring lunch to you and Pa. Pa first.”

Mirra froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“How did she say it?”

“Huh?”

“Belga, your mother: how did she say it to you?”

Valdar quirked his head to the side, brows furrowed. “She said, ‘Take this, it’s lunch for yer pa an’ Mirra.’

Mirra stared at the bundle in her hands, blinking very, very slowly. Then, remembering the pair eyes watching her, she put the bundle down and sat beside it.

“What’s wrong about that?”

After a little while, she shook her head. “Nothing. Thank you, Valdar.”

His brows remained knitted, but he bobbed his head nonetheless. “You’re welcome.” The leaves crunched beneath his moccasined feet as he turned to leave, but then the dwarfling stopped. “Ma says you’re family now. Does that mean you’re stayin’ forever?”

Words disappeared from Mirra’s head.

“I don’ mind if ye do, you know,” he added, thinking she simply needed encouragement. “And I’m sorry for calling ye an elf before.” The dwarfling then dropped his head in sudden timidity.

She nodded. That was all she really could do while her mind was reeling.

_They called me family._

Mirra could hardly bear the warm flash inside her chest.

 

 

 

-

Watching from the thickets was an old fire-bearded dwarf who couldn't help checking on the progress on his pupil.

Smithing was his trade, but by Mahal teaching was his calling. Was he not responsible for teaching both sons of Thrain how to properly defend themselves in battle? His lesson served one better than the other though...

Never mind that. But as much as he reveled (privately) in being able to teach once again, he had a living to make. And winter, when snow stopped many lines of work, leaving people time to get around to maintaining their tools, oft proved to be his busiest time of year. The forge belched hot soot into his eyes. He finished each day unable to feel his hands, numbed by the repeated hammer blows against the hard anvil.  _Better than the opposite_ , he always reminded himself. 

But.

After Valdar handed him his lunch, Belbar bundled up and followed the dwarfling into the white snowdrifts, following an unusually shallow line of footsteps.  _What is she?_ Not an elf, for she was not nearly so exquisite and…pointy-eared. It went without saying that she was no dwarf, though her stubbornness indicated otherwise. She called herself mannish, and certainly she looked mannish, but she did not quite carry herself as one. 

Several moments later, they stumbled onto the practice glen There a tall figure was twirling in the snow, It let loose a mighty battle-axe that spun into the thickets.

"Go on, laddie," he whispered to the boy. "I'll be righ' back 'ere."

If Belbar had to make a guess, he would say her throws averaged about 42 paces. One he reckoned sailed as far as 45.

_The Valar take me,_  he thought with shamelessly gawking eyes,  _she just might do it_.

 

 

-

The weaponsmith’s family nestled right into winter. The three dwarflings could play for hours and hours, often joining up with neighboring boys to organize mock battles with sticks and snowballs or massive fort building. It took no small effort to keep the boys clothed, fed, and watered properly throughout this epic time of play. Thankfully, Belga had no small amount of vigor to keep up with them.

Meanwhile Belbar kept busy with the endless flood of orders at his smith shop. But one day, instead another order for nails or tools or what have you (thank Mahal), something else came in. Or rather, someone else.

“Afternoon, Belbar.”

“Prince Thorin!” He whirled around like his pants were on fire. Which they just about did, if he’d been a smidge less careful.

The prince simply smirked at him. He wore a magnificent cape, as deep a blue as the depths of the Mirrormere, but without any embroidery or decoration to speak of, save for a golden brooch at Thorin’s neck. His hair was combed and clean and his beard bore elegant braids bound by simple silver clasps.

“I was unaware of the ball this evening,” quipped Belbar with a grin.

Thorin bobbed his head, acknowledging the joke but not smiling either. “We just arrived from a gathering of four of the seven houses.”

Belbar gaped. There were seven houses of dwarves in Middle Earth. Despite a shared race and ancestry, each had its own people and its own royalty. The House of Durin was the largest, followed by the Dwarves of the Iron Hills. A meeting of any of the houses meant de facto a meeting of kings. And a meeting of kings only took place on when there was a matter of great importance.

“If I may ask-”

“It’ll earn you naught,” said Thorin, pressing his lips thin. And Belbar understood. Kingly matters were to stay between kings.

Thorin as a king...now that put a swell of pride in his limpin’ old chest.

“Very well.” A wave of heat from the forge reminded the weaponsmith to pull out the saw blade – his current project - which glowed a satisfactory orange. It crackled and hissed under his mallet as he hammered it into a blade.

“How does your family fare?”

“You know,” sighed Belbar, scanning the length of the iron bar, “I remember every blade I craft, but I remember every arm I teach e’en better.” He tapped a knobby finger against his temple. “I remember when ye came just up to my belt, runnin’ around and barkin’ orders to scare the servants. But I’m old now, m’lord, and I haven’t any breath to waste on ‘how’d ye do’s’.”

A small smile curled on Thorin’s lip. Belbar held back a sigh of relief; he could have easily lost his head for speaking to the prince in such a manner. “How does she fare?” asked the prince softly.

_Ah_. “Well ‘nough,” replied Belbar with a nod. “Good worker, does what she’s told. Solid ‘ead on her shoulders.”

Thorin blinked at him.

“Ye’re surprised to ‘ear that.”

“Surprised to hear it from the lips of someone besides myself. The other dwarves find her barely tolerable.”

“Yes, well.” Belbar shrugged as he handed off the saw blade to one of his assistants to sharpen and polish. “They don’ know her like we do, ‘ey?”

With a careful finger, Thorin brushed over some tools left out on a table. “My father is among them.” The prince’s eyes had gone cold. “He was…most displeased when he arrived and word reached his ear. I defended her as best I could-”

“That’s very noble of you-”

“I spoke truth, nothing more.” Thorin picked up a pair of tongs and studied them. It was more than that, Belbar knew; to stand up to the king took a great deal more for Thorin than pursuit of truth. “We settled on a compromise. I know your wife publically declared her as family under the law - and I must ask how in Durin’s name she knows our law better than many of our lawmakers.” He threw Belbar a half-smile that was still laden with respect.

“Ah, that.” Belbar flashed him a shameless grin. “We were in the Dunlands, Nalder was but a swell in her stomach, and so she read to pass the time. Badgered e’ery writin’ dwarf she could find for their books and then went and devoured every one. One of ‘em must’ve been a law book. I’d half forgotten about it till she came home from market that day that Halnar…” Belbar pursed his lips, lowering his hammer until his fist stopped shaking. “She pulled me aside an’ told me her scheme t’ put Mirra in the axe-throw so we’d have the money to make good on our promise to you.”

It took a few moments before Belbar caught Thorin’s face. It was positively thunderous.

“ _What,”_ snarled the crown prince in a voice that could bring down mountains _. “About. The axe-throw_.”

-

Four months had lapsed since Mirra first struck her deal with Belbar and Belga. The sun was peeking out farther and farther from the blue snow-capped peaks. The snowdrifts settled into gray piles of slush, and whatever blusters came through seemed relatively tame to those blizzards at the beginning of winter.

The axe sailed straight and true into the bushes. As Mirra measured the distance, she grimaced. Her throws had plateaued at 50 paces for a few weeks now. Five paces more, and she had a chance at contending for the axe-throw, let alone out-throwing every dwarf in the settlement.

She let out a huff as the axe parted from the tree with a moan. If only she could give just a bit more. If only she could call upon-

_No_. To hear that voice hissing in her ear; to feel the icy shadows crawl all over her innards like a thousand snakes; to possibly lose herself again, like she nearly had in the market, like she nearly had in front of Thorin, once upon a time.

_The blade rose up…_

_The dwarf squirmed, a worm trapped by her finger…_

_She began to hack the boar in a wild fury…_

_How easily his throat would split. How easily the blood would ripple forth…_

_“Mirra! Stop! Stop!”_

_Terror had seized the dwarfling…_

_“Mirra.”_

_He was terrified of her._

_Never again. Don’t even consider it._

“Mirra.”

She leapt forward like a mountain lion, tucking herself into a roll while her hand went straight for her dagger. In less time than it takes to blink, Mirra was crouched on her haunches, teeth bared, nerves crackling like they were on fire.

She looked up and her heart tripped over itself in shock.

"Thorin." And like that all the months that ha passed since they spoke last tumbled away.

"What are you doing?" There wasn't a hint of kindness in his voice.Something curdled in her chest.

"You surprised me," she said, narrowing her eyes. “I reacted.”

"Do not waste my time," he spat back. Sparks flew from his iron eyes, smoldering beneath his thunderous brow. "What on earth compelled you to compete in the spring festival’s axe-throw?"

Mirra blinked at him. Her muscles bristled and re-tensed. "I struck a deal with Belbar.” Her words bit and she let them bite. “The prize money will be enough for Belbar to gather the supplies necessary to forge a sword. I get my blade, you get your debt filled, and he gets compensation.”

"You first gave your word to me." He jabbed a finger at his breastbone. His words stabbed beneath her skin. "I ask you to keep out of trouble. I asked you to keep your head down. Then you go and pull your knife on a dwarf in a market-"

"To defend the life of a child."

"Belbar had to recognize you as part of his family to spare you the consequences. Do you understand what that means?"

"The law shall let me compete in the axe throw in their name."

"Confound the law!" he roared. This was no longer the Thorin of her memory, but a predator. A potential enemy. It took every ounce of willpower she had to not react accordingly. "You are no dwarf. And if you compete – Mahal forbid if by some miracle you win – you may not be breaking a law, but you will outrage many a dwarf. My people will not stand for it."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "While your opinion of me is most encouraging," she hissed, her muscles throbbing, "the distance I throw an axe does not depend on the whims of others.”

"The king will not stand for it,” snapped the prince. “You could throw an axe from here to the tower of Orthanc, but it means nothing if the king of Durin's folk does not recognize you as the victor."

Warning bells were ringing in her head. The bone knife in her right hand had raised and now hovered between them. Her limbs no longer shook; they were primed and ready to strike.

"You," she snarled savagely. “You are all utter hypocrites."

It was as though she had hurled lightening at him. " _Come. Again?"_

"Think me what you want, but I make no pretensions about who I am and what I do. But _you_.” She let out a laugh so cold it sent shivers up her own spine. “All your laws and your _manners_ and _‘traditions’_ , they’re just words. Every word that passes through my lips means something. But _you_ let words run through your hands like water. Oh, I have given _much_ of myself to protect your world. Yet while you say that it owes me, I have received _nothing_. Talk of honor all you like, but you know _nothing_ of the word!"

And with that she grabbed the axe, pivoted about on her foot, and let it go with a shout. It sailed far, far, far into the thickets.

Far beyond 50 paces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I based the axe throw event (the records, the type of swing, the weight, etc.) off the hammer throw, which is better suited to throwing a heavy, dwarvish, double-bladed battle-axe than throwing it over your head like a normal human axe. The measurements are based off of medieval paces (one pace is about 5 feet or 1.52 meters; the record hammer throw was about 86-88 meters, or 57 paces, but c’mon these are burly AF dwarves we’re talking about here) and English stones (one stone equals 14 pounds or 6.35 kilograms; throwing hammers weigh about 16 pounds). And I should shut up now so you guys won’t know when I make a mistake!  
> 2\. *‘Odha’ is a made-up word based on ‘odgajivač’, which is Bosnian for ‘breeder’. Connotation intended.  
> 3\. Tolkien used elements of Anglo-Saxon and Viking culture (presumably) to craft his peoples, and unfortunately neither of them really have books of law. But Middle Earth has a crapton of libraries all over the place so…*throws hands in the air and quits*  
> 4\. So sorry for my absense. This story is testing my work and writing habits to the max, and it's growing bigger than I ever could imagine or hope for. However, morally, I believe that Mirra deserves that he story be finished. So thanks for sticking with me, guys.


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